Breathe Again
by stllrmno
Summary: Hermione Granger is a slag. The whole Wizarding world knows it. All men know it; all women think it. She fucks everything that moves. And Draco Malfoy is about to find out what turned the prudish, know-it-all into London's famous tramp. HG/DM; LL/BZ. AU. OOC. EWE. Post-War. Warning: Sex, mature themes, and vulgar language. R&R.
1. Author's Note

**Author's Note:**

Good evening, people. Well, it's evening around here. But hello, wherever you are. This is a new story, as you can see. Let me just warn you about some things:

 **1.** This story involves mature and tragic themes. I am not going to deny that this involves rape. So if you are uncomfortable about that, feel free not to read.

 **2.** Again, as I've mentioned in my first story, I like to build my characters. So I encourage you to be incredibly patient with me. This is gonna be a hard one to write since it involves psychological themes. Also, Hermione is definitely out-of-character here. Some others as well. It enjoy twisting the story and the characters, so please have an open mind about it.

 **3.** Apologies for future grammatical errors. English is not my first language; but I try. Really. I do.

 **4.** Feel free to leave reviews. Nasty or not, I welcome it. It helps me know if I'm on the right track or if I'm losing touch of what the story is. So please, you—my readers—are my second eye. I'd highly appreciate your comments.

 **5.** I am eternally grateful for your patience and support. I wouldn't have any confidence in writing this if it weren't for you. So thank you so much.

So, if you decide to continue. Skip to the next page. Thank you, again.


	2. Prologue

**Prologue**

 **THIS IS HER REALITY**

 _May 1998_

 _Hermione felt her pelvis ache to his touch. But no, she wasn't into it. In fact, her entire body did its best to pull away from this. She fought hard. Her arms moved all over. Every cell, every fiber of her being, stripped off of her that she could no longer move._

" _Please," her voice croaked. "Let me go. I won't tell—"_

 _He pushed in. And out. Each thrust made her want to wish she was dreaming. Or better yet, dead. She tried to wail, but her throat seemed to have been blocked. Her mouth sewn as she whimpered between sobs and muffled screams. Please, please, kill me. She had wished nothing more than to die. She had wished nothing more than to move away from under him, and run away._

 _But that wasn't happening anytime soon._

 _She was pinned down. Her body pressed against the cold floor that seemed to take away any heat in her body. She was ice-cold as if she had already died. And perhaps, she did. With his sloppy, drunken kisses, she died. With his groaning, she died. With his disgusting grunts, she died. She died as every minute passed without anybody noticing where she had gone to. She died as every minute he pressed her down and connected their body into one. She died… and she had nothing left to cling on to._

 _Tears streamed her face. On the side of her nose. On her cheeks. Down her neck where he placed his kisses. Down between her breasts where his hands touched—no, groped them as if it were the only thing he wanted to touch._

 _She felt disgusted. She felt dirty. She felt naked. She felt used. She felt… empty._

 _After he climaxed, he rolled off her. She wasn't pressed down anymore. But her body weighed as if a dragon sat on her. No, she couldn't move. Her strength had been wasted away from all the fighting, wriggling, struggling. She had nothing left. Both of her legs frigid, her arms shaking, her face still in shock, and her heart—Merlin, her heart was hammering inside her ribcage. It was the only thing that fought in her body. Fought to pump blood and keep her alive. Fought to remind her that she was still alive._

 _How was she alive? She would've taken Bellatrix's handiwork over this… this thing. She could endure the Cruciatus curse better than this. She could hold on and scream her pain; but now, her voice was lost. She wasn't anything anymore. She was nothing. He made her feel nothing. He made sure he marked her skin that she was nothing._

 _His kisses. His groans. His grips. His thrusts—oh Merlin, she could still feel him inside her. It felt as if he never left. His presence still weighed on her back. It marked her. He marked her. He marked her worse than the mudblood carved into her skin. Because physical scars heal and fade; but this one—no, it won't._

 _Unable to move, she remained on the cold floor. Her chest, her stomach, against the ground. Footsteps rang behind her. Moving. Each step was heavy, and with a certain pause between them as if he was slurring. And, she knew that he was. He slurred his way out; but Hermione didn't know how to even make her way out._

 _Godric help me, she prayed. She prayed even if she didn't particularly believe in anything. In anyone. But she prayed harder than she prayed during the war. She prayed harder than she prayed in all her life. No one could help her right now. So she prayed for a miracle._

 _Hermione pulled herself up from the floor. She took whatever remaining strength she had to crawl out of there. She needed to get away. She needed to leave. But how could she? She felt lifeless, sucked out of her own body. Her eyes, welling up in tears, stared at the empty space where she had been lying earlier, and she heard a loud sob escape her throat. Her breath got hitched in her lungs as if smoke filled it, and it was intoxicating._

 _How could she still breathe? How could her lungs keep working after that? How could her heart keep pumping blood? She wanted to die. She needed to die right now. She couldn't live if she meant to live with that. With this._

 _Hermione let out a painful scream as she sobbed. But her scream couldn't tower that noise of the celebration that erupted at the Great Hall._

A bundle of curls bounced as Hermione shot up from her bed, at three-fifteen in the early morning of September 19, 2001. The same nightmare. No, it wasn't just a nightmare. It was a memory. It was _her reality_. And, no matter how much she wished it was just a nightmare—the same as her nightmares about the war—no, it wasn't.

She tried to breathe. But her breath seemed lost in her body. It couldn't make out of her lungs properly. Each breath sounded as if her lungs were on fire. And she had been breathing that way for three years. Three years.

She didn't know how to breathe anymore.


	3. Chapter One

**Chapter One**

 **JUST ANOTHER DAY**

 _September 19, 2001_

The last time Hermione talked to them was in 1998. The war was over for them; but for her, her battle was just beginning. Some cheered for the triumph their side had achieved. Some mourned over the death of their loved ones. But her… she mourned for her own death.

Perhaps she lived. Perhaps she was still here. Standing on a cliffside with nothing but her bare self. Naked, and guilt devouring her whole. But herself—her soul—stretched into long fibers and stripped away from her slowly, and the consequences of her past clawing its sharp talons against her back, catching up. She ran for far too long; but it was never enough.

Hermione remembered the _Tale of the Three Brothers_. She had repeated that story over and over again; in an attempt to find some solace along the lines of how she told it. The first brother taken by Death for his greed; the second brother taken for his sorrows; and the third brother taken as if meeting an old friend. The lesson she learned as she replayed that story in her head was that, at some point, Death catches up with us all—no matter much we run. No matter how many turns we take. No matter how we long we hide. Death will always be at the end of the tunnel.

No one can evade Death. He comes with a cloak over his shoulders, waiting for his next prey; and Hermione stood on that cliffside, waiting to be pushed. And death did not mean that one has to be buried eight feet below the ground; sometimes, it just meant _emptiness_. Pure hollowness deep inside her ribcage, with a bruised heart hammering loud enough to break her bones, and stuffing the empty spaces with anything—just anything—to make her feel something was what she did.

She fought a losing battle. Hermione wasn't sure how long she could still fight; but she did. And she was tired of fighting.

.o.O.o.

Hermione hurled the insides of her stomach down to the bathtub. Her dinner broken down into pieces, made a mess against the cold porcelain, and finally, her head stopped spinning. On her side stood a half-bottle of vodka that she dragged from her bedside table. Her hand gripped its neck before chugging its burning taste down her throat as if it was water.

Merlin. She felt numb; and that felt good. _Drink until your stomach melts into nothing but acid_.

She had been awake since that nightmare. Time passed slowly, and she dreaded to finish this day already. Hermione reminded herself that this was just another day. Twenty-four hours, one-thousand four-hundred and four minutes, eighty-six-thousand and four hundred seconds. She counted. She counted until she was sober enough to stand. No need to fuss. Even if she tried to sleep it off, the nightmares would just keep coming back; so she decided to just drown herself more in alcohol. At least, her head would shut up.

Her skin felt warm. Her face blotchy from all the make-up that had been smudged across her face. She had no time to wash up last night because the moment she entered her bedroom, she passed out on the bed. Dragging her feet to stand, she opened the shower to drain the vomit she splayed in the bathtub. She stood in front of the bathroom mirror, listening to the sound of running water behind her, and stared at her own reflection.

She changed. Her once frizzy brunette hair looked like a mess; and she hated that hair. So she dyed it into dark brown and straightened it whenever she went out. Her face had grown older. Her thin figure curved, following the tight stitches of her dress. And she realized, she wasn't the same woman in Hogwarts before. She wasn't the same Gryffindor prude. And this Hermione Granger was different. It didn't matter if she didn't like it. She had no choice but to like it. She had no choice but to succumb to pain, to her nightmares, to her reality. Because if she didn't, she would've been dead long ago.

What a shame.

"Happy birthday, Hermione," she whispered. _Bullshit_. Hermione took another chug from the opening of the bottle, and let the contents burn her lungs. It was hot inside. But she didn't care. She hadn't cared in a long time. She wasn't about to care now.

.o.O.o.

 _Les Deux Salons_ was a French restaurant in Muggle London; and it was fifteen minutes past twelve when Draco Malfoy arrived at the venue. His incredibly pale blond hair dipped into the sunlight that beamed across the street. Sweat trickled on his neck, sliding as if a drop of rain on a window, and he itched to wipe it off. Before he could, he heard Blaise calling for him from inside the restaurant.

Next to him sat Pansy Parkinson in her dark blue velvet dress that fell over her white knees matched with a pair of high heels. He couldn't help but notice; Parkinson was a walking mannequin after all. Her dark waves flowing into a loose fix that gave a perfect view of her face. If Draco was asked about his opinions of Parkinson, he would've snorted. He didn't want to waste a breath on her. She was never worth the effort.

Pray tell, why did Blaise invite her again? He ought to talk to Blaise about that. This lunch was supposed to be a business meeting; but having Parkinson over, it might be another boring lunch about fashion and gossip. Something his mother particularly liked, and fortunately, he didn't inherit the same interests as his mother.

When he entered the restaurant, Draco glanced. His eyes moved from side to side. He seemed to be looking for something he wasn't certain of. He watched as people laugh, chatter, clink their glasses, cut their steaks, fork their cakes, lean back, and everything else that passed his eyes. Draco have always been so keen on his surroundings—not liking the fact that he didn't know what to expect wherever and whenever he came. So he kept on looking.

Then his eyes found a woman sitting on a corner booth. He didn't know what he saw in her; but he stared longer. Straight, dark brown hair cascading her bare shoulders. Her figure hugged by a tight black dress that fitted over her curves perfectly, cut just before her knees, and showed her pale legs. At her feet was a pair of closed high heels. And Draco thought that she looked like Parkinson; but perhaps with more elegance. Then she lifted her eyes, her high cheekbones, and her lips pressed on a thin line—Merlin, he knew her.

Those eyes. Oh Merlin's saggy balls. _Granger_.

Reaching his table, Draco sat next to Blaise and across Parkinson. He couldn't sit next to Parkinson even if his mother's life depended on it. Merlin, he wished he could just throw Parkinson out of that restaurant as soon as possible.

"What the hell is she doing here, Zabini?" Draco sneered, before Blaise could make some ridiculous commentary about how fashionably late he was. He didn't care. Draco pointed a sharp look at Parkinson.

"Oh, I forgot that I've planned to have lunch with her today. So I just thought maybe we can all be chummy and have lunch together," Blaise said, grinning.

Draco groaned. Great, fucking fantastic. Now, he had to survive another hour of Parkinson's uninteresting rant about the clothes women wear nowadays, or how their hairstyles looked like as if it was on fire, or about who fucked who, or who married who—Merlin, his head ached before he could even think further about it.

Parkinson stretched her leg to caress Draco's, and she leaned, "Draco, why do you hate me so much?" He pulled his leg away from her and hissed. Then she giggled.

"Well, how do you want me to answer that, Parkinson?" Draco huffed. "The list is rather long. I'm sure it would take the entire lunch if I even began, and then, you'd have lost your time to rant about unnecessary things…" Parkinson gasped; Blaise raised his hand to cut them both off. "Now, don't you have a shopping errand to run? Or perhaps save some woman's hair from being on fire?"

"Draco—"

Draco smirked as Blaise began. _I'm just riling them up_ , Draco thought. He leaned on his chair with an arm crossed over his chest. Parkinson looked as if she wanted to pummel him to death; and Draco's eyes dared her to do so.

"If you think that you can get rid of me that easy, Draco, you thought wrong," Parkinson snapped. A hand took the glass of red wine and lifted it to her lips, dousing her mouth in the bitter taste of alcohol. "You can't make me leave. And I won't."

Draco rolled his eyes. Of course, she wouldn't. She's Pansy Parkinson! She always got what she wanted; but Draco wasn't about to cave now. "Be that, if you like," Draco said and turned to Blaise. Blaise looked as if he realized what a terrible decision this lunch was. Draco smirked. "Now, Blaise, don't we have some business matters to discuss?"

Blaise sighed, "You're a wanker, Draco." Parkinson huffed in agreement but Draco ignored her as if she didn't sit across from him.

"I'll take that as a compliment, Zabini," Draco retorted as his eyes glanced over the menu. He read the menu and remembered how his Father wanted him to _best_ everyone at Hogwarts; so he forced Draco to learn French. Well, at least now the skill served him well. The waiter on Draco's right waited for their orders; and soon after their orders were given, Draco took another glimpse at the woman by the corner booth. She remained seated, head buried in a book, with an unfinished wine on her left. Her head bowed. He wanted to see her eyes again but with her reading, he couldn't.

 _Why would I want to see her eyes? Oh fuck._ He caught himself debating about Granger. He wasn't sure as to what side was winning; but he wanted to see her eyes. When he saw her earlier, Draco felt a strong sense of vulnerability hiding behind her make-up; something that she perhaps tried to hide with so much personality. However, it resonated in Draco's mind as if his was connected with hers.

"Blaise," Draco called. Blaise turned to his friend, cutting his conversation with Parkinson, and raised an eyebrow at him. "Is that Granger?"

Blaise spun his head immediately. Surprise took him, and Draco frowned at how Blaise had reaction. Blaise beamed and said, "Oh, I didn't notice her sitting right there. I must go and say hi." He pushed his chair back, stood, and walked over to Granger. Before Draco could process what Blaise had said, he had already left to _'say hi'_ to Granger.

What in the bloody hell…? Draco burrowed his eyebrows deeper. He didn't know Blaise was friends with Granger. Even Parkinson seemed surprised at that. But Draco was rather occupied watching Blaise walk to Granger to even notice Parkinson. Seriously, when did that happen?

Draco watched. Blaise arrived at Granger's table shortly. He said something; her name because she looked up at him with a small smile. Blaise smiled. He was smiling—fuck, what? Draco's head was spinning. He couldn't wrap his mind about what was happening. Blaise leaned down to kiss her cheek. Draco kept on watching and even if he tried to look away, he couldn't because curiosity had already gotten the best of him to just keep looking. After a short talk, Blaise tilted his eyes to their table. Granger shifted her gaze toward Draco; and unconsciously, Draco looked away.

That was close.

Slowly turning back, he found that Blaise was already on his way back to their table. Blaise took his seat, his back leaning comfortably against the chair, and smiled. "Well, I invited her to come over—" Blaise began, and Draco widened his eyes, "—but she said she'd like to be alone for now. It's her birthday, anyway."

"I think you said more than hi," Draco commented. He took a sip in his own wine. Merlin, could someone give him something stronger than this? Then he asked Blaise, "When did that happen?"

"When did _what_ happen?"

"You—her—you know," Draco spelled it out for him. Fuck, Blaise could be so fucking thick as a brick. Blaise raised an eyebrow before laughing.

"No, Draco. You've got it all wrong," Blaise said, sputtering in between his laughter. "We're friends. Well, I'd like to think we are. But I'm dating Luna—from The Quibbler? The one who wrote the feature article for our company?"

"Looney?"

"I wish you'd stop calling her that, Draco," Blaise warned him. Draco smirked. Of course, he'd know about that. Blaise and Luna Lovegood have been dating for the good part of four months. However, they've also been broken apart about three times already. Draco didn't know if it was anything serious; but Blaise kept on coming back. "But, yeah—and Granger, there; she's Luna's flatmate. I've shared meals with the two of them a couple of times now…"

Well, that explained a lot.

Draco took a glance again at Granger. Merlin, she looked different. Her curls have been straightened and dyed into a darker shade. Her face had grown older. More mature. And her eyes—her eyes screamed as if she has seen too much when all she wanted was a glimpse. He never would've thought that he'd see Granger alone in a Muggle restaurant in an elegant dress and high heels. _She never was the one to dress that way_ , he thought.

Breaking his trance, Draco looked at Parkinson leaning over Zabini. Her elbow propped at the table and raised an eyebrow, "I can't believe she has the nerves to come out here." Draco couldn't help but arch an eyebrow at Parkinson. Before Draco could ask what that meant, Blaise spoke first.

"Pansy, that's not nice—"

Blaise was interrupted when Parkinson let out a scoff. She looked offended and screeched, "What? Then she's all nice now? She's a slag, that is." Draco didn't know what was happening. Blaise reached out a hand to hold Pansy's but she jerked it back with a disgusted look on her face. "Salazar's snake, she shagged Adrian Pucey while he was with me. Not once, not twice—four times!" Not that he cared for Parkinson's love life, but Draco remembered Adrian Pucey; world-class arsehole. He thought that Pucey and Parkinson absolutely belonged together. But then something about what Parkinson said…

What? Granger shagged Pucey four times?

"…I had to break off the engagement after that! I can't have him now that he has been stained with that dirty _mudblood_ —" Parkinson cried.

Silence crept inside my throat as Granger stood behind Pansy Parkinson. Her hand clutching a small bag and her dark brown hair flowing graciously over her flawless shoulders. Merlin. Draco raised an eyebrow. Granger smirked, a smirk that seemed all too familiar to Draco because he did the same thing. Then she said, "Well, I believe, Pansy, that you can do so much better than that. Mudblood, that's an old joke, isn't it?"

Well, well…

.o.O.o.

Hermione Granger sat by herself in her usual spot. _Les Deux Salons_ was her safe haven; even if only for an hour or two. She found this joint between her walk from her flat to Diagon Alley, and ever since she found it, she always made an appointment to eat here. Sometimes, even dinner. Sometimes, with Luna. But most of the time, alone.

Just like today. Hermione liked solitude; it gave her peace even for a short period of time. She could read, eat, think without the influence of others. She didn't need to act. She could simply be herself when she was alone. No one knew what built those walls up, anyway; and she'd prefer if it stayed that way. And _Les Deux Salons_ gave her that.

Soaking her tongue with the last drop of wine, she raised her glass to a nearby waiter. She came and poured another at her empty glass before leaving. Hermione filled the cavern of her mouth with wine, savoring the aftertaste, and set it next to today's issue of the Daily Prophet. On the front page was a photograph of Harry Potter holding Ginny Weasley's hand while they waved at the crowd. It was an article of their wedding last weekend. Two hundred guests were invited—half being staff from the Ministry, old friends; and the other half were fans. Of course, Harry Potter was still a celebrity; if it hadn't been for him, the world would've been already destroyed now, and there would be no safe place for anyone.

She flipped the paper to hide the photograph. God, can't she have a day and not remember it? Well, that seemed impossible anyway. She couldn't forget; each second of that evening carved into her skin. Counting. She's had three years to forget, yet her mind refrained from letting go. Hermione learned that to deal with it, she needed to face her memories as if meeting an old friend.

Right.

Hermione pushed some parts of 1998. _God awful year_ , she thought. She didn't have to remember everything; she only needed to remember them. The last time she talked to them was after the celebration. Well, there wasn't much talking; because all Hermione did was pack her things while her friends pried why she had to leave and she disapparated without a word. No hesitation; no tears. It was so close for Harry to grab her sleeve and disapparate with her; but fortunately, his fingers slipped.

Stupid moron. He would've splinched himself. But why did she care? No, she didn't care. There was no space in her entire being to care. She had no time to waste for _caring_. She cared before; and then now she didn't. Can't it be as simple as that? She cared before while nobody cared for her. So that left her no reason to care for anybody.

Lifting my eyes, Hermione found herself staring at a certain blond at the entrance. His stance was firm and solid. His head snapped inside the room, and her eyes followed where he was looking. Blaise Zabini sat in the middle of the restaurant with Pansy Parkinson and his arm waving for the pale blond to enter. Hermione returned her gaze to the pale blond, and her suspicions were right.

Draco Malfoy. Three snakes in one table. Or maybe except for Blaise. Hermione thought Blaise as quite a gentleman—but she didn't play with gentlemen. He was dating Luna, and from what Hermione could tell, he was damn serious about her. And she couldn't have that. She didn't want men who committed. It was the last thing she needed. She played with men who had no taste or standards because that meant that as long as they played with her, she could wrap them easily around her finger like toys without them knowing. They would think, of course, that they had control—but no, she was in control.

She always has been.

Control. Something she never had three years ago. Something that was taken from her with force. Something she _craved_ for. She needed control; and casual sex—it gave her what she needed. She could control where their mouths go, how they touch her, how they hold her, how they _fuck_ her; and she allowed them to ravish her body. She allowed them to experiment on her. She allowed them to worship her as if she was a goddess. And, in their eyes, she was.

It was no secret that she has gone off the charts with her reputation. She changed; even if it was abrupt and unexpected, she still did. Sometimes, she thought about what would've happened if things were different; but she reminded herself that things weren't different. Life took a rather disgusting shit on her face three years ago, and now she tried her best to control where it went from there. Hermione wasn't going to let things slide again—not anymore.

Slowly, Hermione lifted her eyes and locked with Draco Malfoy's. _Grey_ , she thought. Those pale orbs were staring at her as if he wanted her to melt. She saw that surprised looked on his face the moment their eyes locked; but he found his way to Blaise's table. She twitched a slight smirk on her lips before looking down again.

God, he looked good. Better than good, actually. She never would've thought that Malfoy could look better back in Hogwarts. Of course, he was attractive. Girls were lining up behind him back in school; but Hermione wasn't one of those girls. Not even now that she knew how to play. In fact, she never chased men. Men chased her. That was what control could do.

After a few more minutes of solitude, Hermione heard her name being spoken. She lifted her eyes to meet Blaise Zabini standing across her table. A smile tugged on the corner of her red lips. "Hello, Blaise. What a coincidence," Hermione greeted. He returned the smile before leaning down to kiss my left cheek.

"How are you?" Blaise asked after he pulled back.

"I'm fine," Hermione chirped. _Liar. You're never fine. But he doesn't have to know about that._ "You? I haven't seen you in a while."

"Oh, busy day at work," Blaise said, waving a hand. "Would you like to join us for lunch?" He craned his head to the direction of their table; and Hermione trailed her eyes over to see Malfoy staring. He looked away immediately as if to pretend that he didn't see anything.

Hermione shook her head. But she smiled.

"It's alright, I'd rather like to be alone for now. It's my birthday, after all," Hermione said. Blaise raised an eyebrow before cracking his mouth into another smirk.

"Well, happy birthday, Hermione." Blaise looked back. Hermione saw Pansy Parkinson glaring at their direction and Hermione did what she does best—smile. "I should go. I'll see you around, yes? Send Luna my love."

"You should owl her. I'm rather getting tired of all the cooking," Hermione tipped. She rolled her brown eyes, earning a laugh from Blaise. Luna always cooked whenever anxiety kicked in. She cooked more than she could eat; and then she'd end up throwing them out by morning. And Blaise usually triggered her anxiety button.

"Perhaps," Blaise teased before walking back to their table.

Hermione was once again left alone. Silence kicked in again; and God, she hated silence. She hated _static_ noise of nothingness in her ears; she could hear her goddamn heartbeat. Because as soon as silence fills in, she began to lose control again. So she focused on her surroundings. Her ears distracted by hoots of laughter erupting from behind her. Loud chatter, glasses clinking, bottles bumping, soft classic piano playing in background. Her eyes moving around the place until she heard a screech coming from the middle of the restaurant.

She saw Pansy Parkinson almost leaping from her seat. Merlin, all she needed was a day of peace; and now, Pansy Parkinson came knocking on the door. "Salazar's snake, she shagged Adrian Pucey while he was with me. Not once, not twice—four times!" There was it. Hermione expected her to make a fuss about it; just like the fuss she made in the middle of Gringotts. It made the fronts of the Daily Prophet and Witch Weekly; but Hermione could care less.

As long as they didn't dig deep enough, it was fine.

Hermione rolled her eyes. Some customers were eyeing them, murmuring their own gossip between their little groups, while Parkinson kept shrieking like a goddamn banshee. Hermione saw Blaise trying to keep her calm but seemed to have failed when Parkinson jerked her hand away. Gathering her things, she stood from her table and walked toward where all the shouting was coming from. And Parkinson was still ranting when she arrived, saying, "…that he has been stained with that dirty _mudblood—"_

Hermione smirked. "Well, I believe, Pansy, that you can do so much better than that. Mudblood, that's an old joke, isn't it?"

Pansy Parkinson spun in surprise as she spoke. Even Malfoy had his eyebrow arched as if he was rather taken aback by her actions. _Control, Hermione_ , she reminded herself. Hermione wanted to laugh at Pansy Parkinson for taunting with _mudblood_ as if that word still affected her. No, she wasn't affected anymore. She hadn't cared in a long time; so why would she care about what Parkinson said about her?

Hermione stood firmly. Her high heels planted into the ground while she stood against the flaring woman. Parkinson's blood boiled in anger while Hermione remained calm. Hermione could almost see smoke coming out of Parkinson's ears and stopped herself from laughing. That would only make things worse. No need to make a big deal about things.

"You, bitch!" Parkinson hissed at her. God, could she even be more original?

Hermione laughed and said, "Is that the best you can do? Really?"

"You ruined my engagement!" Parkinson retorted. "Merlin, I don't even know what he saw in you. You're disgusting and filthy and… and…"

Rolling her eyes, Hermione had decided that this was a rerun. She has been called many things. All things. Named as if she was nothing but garbage; and she accepted it. She was nothing after all. Nothings hid better when they have different names crawling over them. Hermione used those names to hide herself; to mask whatever she couldn't show to anyone.

"And a slut, and a whore, and a hag—seriously, don't you have anything better to say? Look, Parkinson. I didn't steal him. I didn't ruin anything. You did all that by yourself—"

Parkinson lunged at Hermione; but Hermione didn't back off. She wasn't afraid. "Why, you—"

"If you really must know, he came to me. Well, the first time was all my doing, of course; but the rest, he was always the one who arranged a meeting. He came to me. Because he can't stand your goddamn nagging and bitching about things that don't matter," Hermione expressed. God, can't she get it into her thick skull that she was a goddamn bitch? And Adrian Pucey was a lousy prick anyway. He wasn't _that good_ in bed, Hermione thought. She continued, "So, Parkinson, I believe that you're pointing your finger at the wrong direction…"

Parkinson looked as if she might want to barf. Oh that would a sight; but perhaps not in front of Hermione. Her dress was rather expensive to be vomited on. Hermione grinned at Blaise, then to Malfoy, eyeing him for the first time this close. He was already looking at her. Then suddenly, she felt a hitch in her chest. As if stones were buried inside it. God, not again. Not now. Not here. But Hermione managed to say coolly, "Well, I should probably go. Good afternoon, gentlemen," Hermione beamed; and then she found herself entering the ladies' room.

Hermione stood in front of the mirror. Her chest heaved. Her legs buckled. Her fingers trembling as hard as her lips were. So much for control. She swallowed and let in a deep breath into her lungs; but her breath was shallow as if the air coming in wasn't enough to fill her lungs. God, what was happening?

She spilled all the contents of her purse onto the counter. Make-up scattered, her keys, tiny liquor bottles, her wand; and she rummaged until she found what she was looking for. Her hands clasped around the tiny orange bottle filled with prescription drugs, and after she uncapped it, she popped two pills into her mouth. She swallowed it down her throat; and finally, relief rushed her.

Her fingers were still trembling; but her breathing normalized. She breathed. In and out—slowly. Just like before. Hermione stared at herself in front of the mirror and straightened her dress. She couldn't show herself like this. She couldn't show people how vulnerable she was. She stared at the bottle in front of her before letting out a deep sigh. God, when would this end?

And without another minute, she left.

* * *

 _A/N: Hope you enjoyed that one. Apologies for the errors; reviews are much appreciated; and gratitude for the patience and support. 'Til next time!_

 _PS. I own nothing. All characters and references belong to J.K. Rowling._


	4. Chapter Two

**Chapter Two**

 **SCRATCH MARKS**

 _September 24, 2001_

One hard thrust, a strangled moan escaped her throat before collapsing both of her hands on the bed. Dean Thomas shuddered under her; and their skin covered in sweat as their movements ceased. Hermione sat on top of him steadily. Her naked chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath after such a wild ride. She leaned down and trailed her tongue along his ears, earning a throaty groan from him, making her snicker in pleasure.

Merlin, she loved hearing men moan.

She pulled herself back as she began to move again. Dean pressed his head against the pillow in ecstasy as she began to grind against him again, his member twitching inside her. Hermione tilted her head up as she felt him stretching her wide inside once again. God, she felt full; and it was satisfying. His hardened shaft reaching far up against the walls of her womanhood, and she ached when his hands reached to cup her gorgeous, rounded breasts. Slowly, his hands trailed down to her thighs before taking a hard grip on her hips, pushing her back and forth as if to guide her.

No. Before she could stop him, memories assaulted her. Each image flashing in her mind like lights; and her eyes started to blur. She was back on that floor, with the same man, pushing his flaccid dick in and out of her from behind while he pinned her to the ground. She was helpless again. No one could hear her anymore because her mouth couldn't do more than her shameful sobs.

Hermione looked down. Her dark hair falling from her shoulders down to the side of her face, and Dean's mouth forming a loud hiss as Hermione ground him harder. She needed control. His hands remained on her hips, guiding her to go faster, but she smoothed them away from her. No, she didn't need him to guide her. She knew what she needed to do. She didn't need anyone to tell her how to fuck; she _knew_ how to fuck. A grunt left her mouth, as she pushed harder, deeper, to hit the tighter parts inside.

But then, the memories didn't stop. Her nightmares became her reality. Hermione shut her eyes tight; in attempts to shut her brain too. Her brain didn't, however. Hermione could hear in Dean's voice each grunt that had been ringing inside her ears for three years—each moan, each groan, each curse. The same sound. But Hermione didn't let out a plea to stop; instead she moved faster until she could forget it.

She needed to forget. She needed to drown that memory into the deepest corner of her brain with memories of this. This—this whole deal. She didn't want to remember it. In fact, she would rather remember anything else other than this. Hermione would rather fly a broom than face that memory again. Her greatest fear. Her greatest weakness. Her failure.

Without another second, Dean exploded; and Hermione slowed her pace. Dean found his hands again on her waist, pushing further in as he climaxed, but Hermione pushed his hands away. He groaned at what she did but laid back on the bed. Afterwards, Hermione rolled off him and sat on the edge of the queen-size bed in their hotel room.

Well, Dean's hotel room. She was just visiting.

Hermione's fingers hooked the waistband of her panties and pulled it up. She took her bra that hanged off on the headboard before clasping its hooks behind her. It cupped her breasts perfectly and shaped into a pair of full, round muscles. Across her was the closet mirror; and Hermione stood. Her hair was a mess, knotted into a ball of dark strands, and her lipstick smudged across her cheeks. Even if she had never kissed Dean, or anybody, her lipstick still roamed over her partners' bodies—marking them as hers.

Just as how _he_ marked her.

"I reckon you heard of Harry and Ginny's wedding," Dean said, all of a sudden. Hermione didn't answer but she listened as he said, "It was… extravagant. Harry being a hero after all."

Hermione wiped the lipstick on her face before reapplying. She traced that glinting stick against her pale lips and pressed them into a thin line. "And you're telling me this because…?" Hermione pried as she put on a new layer of mascara.

"I didn't see you there," Dean said.

"Of course, you wouldn't," Hermione said. She received an invitation, though. It came with her mail on a Wednesday morning—approximately one month before the wedding itself. She took a glance at the invitation before discarding it into the trash. Hermione didn't expect to receive an invite; but even if she did, she had decided long before that attending such thing would only break her resolve. No, she wasn't about to show herself up and crack in front of them. That wasn't how she learned about survival. Survival meant to adapt; to hide from your predators, not parade in front of them. Then she added, "It's not like we're all friends."

"Yeah, I don't get that. You used to be best of friends. What happened?"

"Not your business, Dean," Hermione said. Even if it was, she wasn't in the mood to talk about it. In fact, she wasn't in the mood to talk about it _at all_.

Dean came from behind her. His fingers rested on her shoulder; and she shuddered. She hated that; being touched so affectionately. She didn't deserve to the touched that way. No, she was garbage. Hermione did her best—she moved from him. She took her shirt from the other side of the room and pulled it over her naked torso. Still standing at the mirror, Dean looked at her.

He teased, "Leaving already?"

Hermione didn't answer. He already knew the answer to that; she never stayed. Even if she was asked to, she never did. She made it her rule that there was no other reason for her to stay; so why stay? Hermione picked up the tight pencil skirt that was thrown across the floor and pulled the zipper close at her back. A look passed between her and Dean, and silence flooded in again. She knew that Dean wanted to ask her to stay; but he knew she wouldn't.

She couldn't. Because staying meant that there was something more. Something more to this _transaction_. And Hermione couldn't have anything more than this. If she hated anything more in this world other than flying, it was commitments. She knew herself; she wasn't someone who commits, because she was someone who _ruin_ commitments.

Dean Thomas knew that. Every man she slept with _knew_ that.

Hermione faced the tall, dark man standing naked in front of her. The man she had just been _shagging_ 'til their brains turned to mush. He began, "Look, Hermione. I'm not just someone you call whenever you're bored or needing a distraction—"

Hermione laughed, and at the same time, let out a huff.

"—I'm still dating Cho," Dean trailed off. He seemed to have been lost in his words. "And I really like her. This can't happen again, Hermione. You're great; but I can't do this to Cho."

Look who grew a conscience. Just five minutes ago, he was having the best sex of his life. Hermione wanted to giggle; but suppressed it into a smirk.

Of course. Merlin, she hated that. She hated hearing the word _but_ , especially in conversations like this. A snort came out of her mouth. That word meant nothing but failure and unfulfilled potentialities. Hermione took a step toward him, leaned up, and trailed her lips along his jawline before whispering, "You are who I want you to be. See you next week."

Without another word, Hermione gathered the remainder of her things and left Dean's hotel room.

.o.O.o.

What a nightmare.

Draco dreaded to wake up now; but he realized soon after that this was real. Seated across his mother, and next to a dumb blonde woman named Penelope Marsh, he rubbed his temple as it started to pound. Narcissa Malfoy expressed her opinion about the current fashion trend, Ginny Weasley's wedding gown, and how extravagant her reception was; while Penelope giggled, and nodded, stupidly at his mother.

He wondered what made him come to this dinner anyway. Then he remembered; right, his mother made a compelling argument that it would nice to eat out tonight with Penelope Marsh. Draco glanced his eyes at the young woman on his left, grimacing. She was striking and attractive, definitely eye-catching; but as much as beautiful as she was, she must've lost a handful of brain cells in exchange. The ends of her blonde hair curled at her front, her lips pale pinkish, and her eyelashes thickened with make-up—Merlin, couldn't his mother pick someone better than her?

At least, someone he could engage in an intelligent conversation with.

His mind decided to wander off while his mother shared her gossips with Penelope. He couldn't help but notice that she'd glance at him once in a while as if she was attempting to catch his attention—but he just ignored her. She wasn't even worth the time. Draco reeled his mind through business because it proved to be more interesting than gossip.

After the war, Draco turned over the family businesses to his father's older brother, Alistair. He remained as part of the board members, receiving a generous share from their earnings; however, Draco decided that he needed to manage something other than attending boring meetings and balls, or so Merlin help him, he would've died of boredom. Hence, after a few turn-overs, Draco took the Malfoy Apothecary with Blaise Zabini's assistance—since both of them excelled in Potions. The Apothecary was a small independent company that employed about two hundred staffs; and according to his last meeting with Blaise, they were ready to take it out of London.

"Draco," Narcissa called, snapping him out of his thoughts. She looked at her son with concern and continued, "You have not touched your dinner, dear. Do you not like it?" He looked down at the medium-rare streak on his plate before glancing his eyes down to the dining utensils on the side. Draco blinked. He saw from the corner of his eyes that Penelope was leaning to him as if to touch his face; but before her hand could reach him, he swatted it away like a fly.

"No, Mother. I am simply feeling hot at the moment," Draco explained. _Salazar's sake, kill her or something._ He glared at the blonde woman at his left. His mother clearly has no taste in women; and he knew from the beginning that it was going to be a terrible evening. "Excuse me. I'll go take a puff," he said as he pushed his chair back. Draco saw Penelope open her mouth as if she wanted to say something; but closed it when she couldn't. Then he stepped toward his mother and left a soft peck on her forehead.

"I wish you'd stop that habit, Draco. It's unbecoming," Narcissa commented.

But Draco ignored her. He reached the front of the hotel where his mother had decided to dine. Standing on the far side, Draco clipped a cigarette in between his fingers and lit its end. The moment it burned, he felt smoke filling his lungs almost immediately. It was the least of his worries—to be unbecoming. Instead, he wanted to become undone. If he could just rip himself open and scrub off the scars left by the war, he would; and he wished it were that simple.

 _The war changed us all_ , he thought.

He began this terrible habit shortly after the war. His nightmares were unbearable; for all he could see was the Dark Lord's face, and Bellatrix's high-pitched shrill, and the horrified looks on those first years' eyes he… Merlin's balls, he took another puff. He blew the clouded smoke from his mouth to the air. His chest burned inside as if his demons had finally began to react to the fire inside. His demons were voices in his head, reminding him of his faults during the war, of his cowardice, of his failure; and fuck, the smoke in his lungs suffocated them.

Draco and his mother were pardoned while his father rotted in Azkaban. It was the best accommodation to the Dark Lord's most faithful servant after all. Lucius welcomed to their home a murdering psychopath, and Draco blamed his father for it all—for his nightmares, for their prejudices. Draco knew, his mother knew, that Lucius deserved to be a prisoner of Azkaban—to be locked, accept no visitors, and die slowly. Neither he nor his mother talked about Lucius unless necessary; because thinking of Lucius only brought terrible memories.

But Draco managed. His mother managed. Draco survived the war with his sanity still intact; and he thanked Merlin for that. Of course, most people still ridiculed him for being a former Death Eater. Some would show disgust; some would mock him; some would spat words. But he didn't care. Their words were as empty as their brains were. There was no point in arguing with them because, after all, they were right—he was a former Death Eater, and perhaps he belonged in Azkaban with his father, but for his sake, he was forgiven for this crimes and he thanked whichever God was out there.

Crushing the burning stick with the heel of his shoe, Draco lifted his eyes and saw a familiar dark haired woman stepping out from the hotel lobby. Her high heels making a distinct noise, her figure wrapped in a thick trench coat, and her face angled into the light—enough to Draco to make out who she was.

Granger. The same woman from the French restaurant.

For some unknown reason, Draco felt an itch on his back. He wanted to approach her. But if he did, what would he say? It wasn't as though they were friends. In fact, Draco showed disdain for the likes of Granger. He hated that he came second to her in most things (except flying) and the fact that she was a muggleborn to begin with. His upbringing centered on being the best, the noblest, of all wizards and witches. He was a Malfoy, after all. His name was the equivalent of royalty in Muggle terms. And he was bested by a muggleborn; a _mudblood_ by his father's words. His father needn't remind him of his disappointment; Draco felt it in Lucius' words, his looks, his gestures. Draco thought to himself if he still felt the same. He wasn't sure. He didn't dislike her _kind_ ; but he didn't befriend them as well.

He was indifferent. Neutral.

When Draco came closer into the light, he saw her head tilting toward him. He saw her face, closer; with a bit more exhaustion reflecting her. "Granger," he greeted. His right hand buried deep in his pockets and the other brushing his hair.

"Malfoy," Granger smirked. Her dark lips twitching. Her trench coat was unbuttoned; and under she wore a light shirt tucked under her pencil skirt. Her long legs firm on the ground as she stood in her high heels. Draco couldn't help but look at her in all her glory. He knew from that moment that something had drastically changed with her— _in_ her.

What would he say? Fuck, this was the worst idea. If Blaise were here, Draco knew that he would laugh so hard at Draco's impaired speech. He hadn't the slightest clue of what to say to Granger. But Granger began, "Can I have a cigarette?"

How…? Did she see him? His face painted his question, and Granger let out a soft laugh before she closed her lips into a tight smile. Then she explained to him, "I could smell you all the way here, Malfoy. Denying it would be a waste of effort." Her hand extended, waiting, and Draco took another stick from his coat pocket and handed it to her. Her dark lips closed around the end while she lit the other end—and next thing he knew, smoke was coming out of her mouth.

"I didn't know you smoke," Draco said. Merlin, who was this woman? She hummed in agreement while she continued to puff her stick. Draco tried to look away; but his eyes only returned to the woman standing by the front of the hotel with a cigarette in her hand. A soft blow of wind came their way; and Draco could smell the stench of alcohol from her clothes. "Look, I—uh, didn't get to greet you a _happy birthday_ during that day at the French restaurant…"

Granger looked at him. She arched an eyebrow, in surprise, before giggling.

"That was two weeks ago, Malfoy," Granger said.

"Better late than never, right?"

Draco didn't know what has gotten into him. Here he was, talking to Granger as if they were friends; but he wouldn't exactly call this _talk_. Draco was lost for words. His tongue tied into a knot, and the words in his mouth had died down into nothing but saliva. God, what was happening to him?

Granger threw her finished cigarette, and said, "Well, thank you. I appreciate that. How's Parkinson, by the way?"

She sounded as if she mocked him. But Draco smirked; the same smirk he saw on her face a while ago. She returned it with a smile. "Oh, she burst into tears. Then she ran out. Humiliating, trust me. I can't believe Blaise invited that horrendous woman," Draco said.

Granger laughed.

"But Granger, tell me," he couldn't help himself but ask. "Did you really sleep with Adrian Pucey? Four times?" Merlin, he knew Adrian Pucey; and indeed, he was right foul git. He bragged about sleeping with girls; but Draco knew that that was the extent of his sex life.

"Uh-huh," Granger said in affirmation.

Merlin's beard. "How the hell did that happen?"

Granger giggled. Then she placed a hand on his cheek, tapping his face softly, before saying, "Perhaps I'd tell you another time. But for now, it's time to leave. I'll see you around, yes?" Her hand sent shivers over his neck, and the moment her hand left, he felt a sudden weight lodged in his ribs. Her heels stomped on the ground as she walked away. Draco followed her with his eyes, and from afar, he watched her disapparate. Silence caved Draco while he stood there, frozen at what happened, and unsure of what would happen next.

When Draco returned at their table, Narcissa Malfoy glanced with a smile. The dark blonde woman, Penelope, had finished her dessert already. Draco's steak was still untouched; but he had already lost his appetite. Fuck, he needed a drink. Something strong; something that burned—and perhaps, something would make sense in this strange evening. He looked between his mother and Penelope.

"Where have you been, dear? I was worried," Narcissa inquired, taking a sip from her champagne.

"Just outside," Draco said, quietly.

"I saw him talking to a woman," Penelope informed. Merlin, how the hell did she see him? But of course, Draco knew his mother had asked Penelope to check on him. That was how his mother played the game; and he hated being her chess piece.

"Woman?" Narcissa's eyes glinted. "Who was this woman, son?"

"Granger," Draco said. He filled his mouth with champagne after saying her name. The champagne tasted marvelous; just as how he tasted her name in his tongue. Bitter, yet calming. "I saw Granger outside. We had a… talk."

"Hermione Granger?" Draco raised his eyes to his mother; but Narcissa hadn't said anything. He shifted his gaze to Penelope Marsh. Her blue eyes glinting in excitement. Penelope almost jumped from her seat at the sound of Granger's name, and she continued, "I can't believe it. I didn't recognize her. She looked different… No one has heard of her in years. I mean, she doesn't appear in public as much as Harry Potter and Ron Weasley. One might think that she's gone into hiding…"

"Hiding?" Draco raised his eyebrow. _Now_ , Draco thought, _perhaps this bint has finally something to offer_.

Penelope took another sip from her drink. She looked at Draco and said, "Well, you know, her reputation. She hasn't got the best reputation after she's shagged half of Wizarding London. Plus, rumors are she isn't friends with Harry and Ron anymore. Drifted away after the war. No one even knows where she works up until Pansy Parkinson made a scene at Gringotts. It's the biggest mystery, really."

Granger. What the hell happened to Granger? That question plagued him for the next half an hour until Narcissa had decided that it was time to leave. Penelope tried to kiss Draco on the cheek; but Draco had already gone halfway to the hotel lobby. Merlin, he couldn't stand that woman. When his mother joined him at the lobby, he disapparated them both back to the Malfoy Manor.

Upon arriving, Draco decided to head to his room immediately when Narcissa called for her son. He faced his aging mother and waited; then she said, "Invite Miss Granger to the Christmas Ball. I'd very much like to meet her. She sounds like an interesting woman…"

Then without waiting for approval, Narcissa left the drawing room. Draco stood alone, again, and said to himself, " _That_ she is."

.o.O.o.

Luna Lovegood was almost insane; well, she was the closest to what Hermione would consider as insane. Her bright blonde hair waving down from the top of her head down to her back, following Luna's movements as she turned all around the kitchen, with her pink homemade apron covering her front. Luna had started cooking again, and this time, Hermione knew it was bad this time.

Hermione could smell Luna's kidney pie across the hall outside their dingy flat. The scent became stronger when she came in; and a loud clatter erupted into the kitchen, followed with a familiar whimper. Hermione hanged her coat behind their front door, threw her keys away, and walked to the living room. She quickly saw Luna getting up from where she had fallen. There was something spilled on her apron, her hair thrown over, and some flour on her cheek.

"Oh hello, Hermione," Luna's sweet voice soothed her. Hermione raised an eyebrow at her flatmate before leaning against the kitchen counter. Luna turned back to what she was doing and said, "I didn't hear you come in. I made some kidney pie. I think I'm gonna make some apple pie later. Or maybe some blueberry pie. I don't know. I'm not sure what I still have here—"

"You made apple pie last night," Hermione said, arms crossed.

"I know," Luna nodded. She took the dough in her hand and started to knead. "But, I threw it away this morning. I think I might try again…"

Hermione sighed. She reached a clean glass from the cupboard, filling it with tap water, and took a small sip. Her mouth had been rough for the past half an hour; and drinking water satisfied her need. God, that was good. "Has Blaise called yet?" Hermione asked, setting the glass down. She watched as Luna's movements ceased. Her pale hands holding the dough but unmoving; and immediately, silence took in. Hermione didn't hear Luna's rambling. What she heard was quiet sniffling. Then Luna's hands moved again.

"No, he hasn't," Luna said. She kneaded harder, faster, again and again—for a moment, silence lingered a little bit longer. If Hermione's control came from alcohol or sex, then Luna's control came with cooking. She has control whenever she measured how much flour, or how much salt, or how warm, or how cold—because for a short time, she could keep herself in place. Just as much as Hermione needed. "Anyway, how are you?"

"Fine," Hermione said, flatly. But Hermione knew better than to believe that. If there was any truth in saying that line, it was that she shouldn't believe it. Hermione lost count of how much she told people that she was fine but didn't mean it; and for her, it became so natural to pretend.

"You've been taking painkillers again," Luna said. Hermione faced her flatmate carefully. The two of them knew that this topic was uncharted waters. Hermione never asked personal questions; Luna stayed off her business. But as time passed, Hermione found it unbearable to live with the blonde without talking. Luna couldn't keep herself from rambling, and Hermione listened. Until slowly, their connection grew stronger even if none of them really talked about it. Perhaps Luna was the only person who knew half of Hermione's story, and Hermione was firm that she wouldn't let anyone else in.

"Yeah. Just two for a night," Hermione assured. Luna needed to know that what happened three months ago wasn't about to happen again. Taking the uncapped bottle of tequila from the cupboard, Hermione walked across the kitchen toward the narrow hall that led to their bedroom. "Good night, Luns," she said, disappearing to her bedroom.

The door slammed shut. Hermione stripped off her heels, her skirt, and shirt—leaving her in nothing but underwear. She paraded toward the tiny bathroom that they both shared with the neck of the tequila bottle still gripped around her fingers. She placed it on the bathroom sink and darted her eyes to the small mirror in front of her—her reflection showed someone who has seen too much and felt too little. Dark circled around her eyes, thin face, and dried lips. Her body was a meat-suit that was filled with nothing but alcohol, painkillers, and sex.

A hand traced her abdomen. Her fingers opening its spaces in between as she trailed them over her skin. And memories assaulted her again. One. _She held a long white stick with eyes fixed on the two blue lines in the middle._ Two. _The female doctor pressed the instrument against her abdomen, spreading more of that cold gel._ Three. _Hermione screamed at the top of her lungs while she lied on that bed, her legs propped open, and tears sliding down her cheeks._ Four. _Luna held her hand as she cried._ Five. She screamed more, _"I don't want it! Take it out of me—"_

Hermione felt warm tears falling on her cheeks, and she was back in her bathroom. She stood there, naked, and she took her hand away from her stomach. Not now. She couldn't. Hermione uncapped the bottle and drowned herself in alcohol.

Numb. She needed to feel numb.

* * *

 _A/N: Hello, readers! Did you enjoy that one? I really hope you did. But before I end this, let me answer questions from you:_

 _1\. More of Hermione's character will be revealed soon. You'll see more of how she acts around people. So stay tuned. I don't want to spoil._

 _2\. Her relationship with Draco will be gradual. Emotionally, painfully slow. So don't rush._

 _3\. I don't have an exact idea of how long this will be for I have yet to complete the outline. What I have for now is the backbone of the story. Updates will be... whenever I finish the chapter. So please be patient._

 _Thanks! Please, reviews are much appreciated. Apologies for typo-grammatical errors. 'Til next time._


	5. Chapter Three

**Chapter Three**

 **WHAT A SHAME**

 _October 6, 2001_

 _Hermione heard a soft rapping on the bathroom door. She sat on the toilet bowl with her brown eyes fixed on the little white stick in her hand. There were two blue lines in the middle that indicated her fear. God, this ranked as the worst year of her life. Her heart thumped against her white bra and black tank top; and every breath she took felt so damn heavy._

 _Tears welled on the edge of her eyes, threatening to fall, and once they did, Hermione knew that she was done for. She heard another careful knock and a voice, saying, "Hermione? Are you okay? You've been in there for twenty minutes—" She wrapped her fingers around the stick and covered the two blue lines that seemed to be blinking in celebration. But Hermione didn't celebrate. She couldn't. How could she—if this thing ruined her chances of being_ okay _again?_

" _I'm fine, Luna," Hermione sniffed. Merlin, and all the gods, knew that she wasn't. "Just give me a minute. Okay?" She didn't hear a reply. Instead, she heard a shuffling against the door with a shadow appearing at the bottom. Luna sat with her, the door as the only thing that separated them, but Luna sympathized. Hermione's tears fell and her chest tightened with the rest of her body shaking. She wanted to stop breathing. If she could forget breathing, she needed it now._

 _Luna said, quietly, "We'll figure it out, okay?"_

 _Hermione felt herself nodding. But how? How were they going to figure out? She pressed a hand against her abdomen. She felt a slight twitch against her palm—her fingers—and Hermione let out a whimper. God, she didn't want this. She didn't want_ it _. Hermione's mouth hiccupped as if to suppress a sob; but she failed, just like her failing to fight back, just like her failing to face her fears. Hermione trembled. Each cell in her body reacted to the pain that she felt inside, burning and knotting, as if she had just died._

Death would be a helping hand if he were to come now _, she thought._

 _In that moment, she wanted to die._

Seating on the plush cushion that leaned against the plain wall, Hermione heard nothing but silence—her own breathing, slight movements, the cars that passed by this building. There was a formal looking woman sitting across Hermione, with a journal plopped open in her lap, a pen in hand, and waiting. The woman waited, waited for something to happen, and Hermione didn't know what she expected.

Both of them had been sitting in complete silence for about twenty minutes now. Just as how long she sat on that toilet bowl with that white stick. She could never forget. Time ticked, wasted, and Hermione glanced across the small office space before looking back at the woman sitting in front of her.

"Hermione?" Hermione stared at the woman, eyes assessing. Her name was Gina Moore, a Muggle psychiatrist appointed to see Hermione every two weeks. This was their fifth session; and just like before, Hermione barely said anything other than she was fine. Ms. Moore said, "You're quiet. Can you tell me what's on your mind?"

"I can. But I don't think I will," Hermione said. Her voice was cool, unwavering. For years, Hermione learned best that sarcasm was a good way to hide pain. And right now, she felt so much pain. Unbearable. It coursed through her veins, raging; and she wanted to stop feeling it. How could she make herself stop from feeling it? Ms. Moore didn't seem to falter at Hermione's wit; instead, her stiff shoulders seemed to have relaxed and continued to stare without expression at Hermione.

"Why not?"

"Because I don't have to," Hermione snapped. _I don't really want to._ Remembering was sometimes bearable enough; but talking about it was a different thing. Her throat would crack before she could even form the words. Hermione tried to talk about it for years but her words seemed to have been webbed rather horribly that she always ended up hysterical. So she stopped talking about it. God, this was such a terrible idea.

"It helps to talk about what you're feeling," the psychiatrist said. Her fingers moved across the page of her journal, scribbling something; and whatever it was, Hermione couldn't care more to think about it. Hermione just wanted— _needed_ —for this hour to be over. "Why are you here, exactly?"

"It's not like I have a goddamn choice," Hermione huffed. Luna always accompanied her during her sessions, waiting outside the room, perhaps reading a Muggle magazine; except this time. Luna decided to stay home and prepare some dinner for Blaise. But, of course, Daphne Greengrass made it impossible for Hermione to miss a session after what happened three months ago; and Hermione couldn't help but snort at that idea. Who would've thought that Daphne Greengrass would care for _mudblood_ Granger? "I'm just here to get my prescription. And then I'll leave…"

Ms. Moore smiled, thinly. Her rose-colored lips pressed into a narrow line before she wrote again. Then a question came out after, "Why do you need your prescription?"

"You ask me the same question every time," Hermione hissed. She stood, but she didn't leave. She started pacing across the floor, her fingers ringed together, and her chest heaving. Sweat formed on her back, and its wetness being absorbed by the thickness of her sweater. "I don't want to be here. At all. I don't need to be here and _talk_. I just… need my prescription."

Ms. Moore placed her hands over her knees, and said, "I will give you the prescription. But first, we have to talk."

Hermione sighed. She threw her hands in the air. She was tired—tired of thinking about it all. Her mind raced. She was tired of talking about it. Her muscles felt sore for twitching whenever she felt herself losing control again. Her head aching before her mind could even think. She wanted for once for everything to just shup up; but her mind kept mumbling inside as if it has a mouth of his own. "I don't want to talk. I just… I'm tired," Hermione said, defeat rushing over her.

"Why are you tired?" Ms. Moore asked, "Are you restless?" Hermione stared at her psychiatrist but closed her mouth. Her teeth gnashed her lower lip as she tried her best not to talk. She has said enough words for today. "How about what happened three months ago? Would you like to talk about that?"

Hermione couldn't stop herself. Her head snapped at the formal-looking woman, eyes wide, and fingers tightening around her wrist. Her chest didn't calm down. Her arms and legs went frigid at the words that came of her psychiatrist's mouth. Merlin, would she remotely want to talk about that? Of course not. That was a nightmare, one among the worsts.

"No," Hermione said. "I'm not talking about that…"

"Why not?"

"Because it doesn't matter."

"It matters to your friends," Ms. Moore pressed. Hermione snorted at the word— _friends_. Merlin, no. She didn't have friends. Luna wasn't her friend. Neither was Blaise nor was Daphne. They were mere characters in her life. Temporary. Replaceable. Hermione hated that word. In fact, she _despised_ it in its very core. Her friends were Harry and Ron; _were_ being the operative word. Her friends were a thing of the past. Her friends were some people she hadn't talked to in years. Her friends were… gone.

Hermione raised her chin up and snarled, "They're not my friends."

"Well, they seem to care very much about you."

"Of course, they _think_ they care," Hermione groaned. She crossed her arms over her chest, and felt every rise and fall. "Many people try so hard to break down my walls. They smash it; and once they're in, they do nothing but hurt me. But I'm not gonna let it. It's not gonna happen."

"What makes you think they will hurt you?"

"I don't think," Hermione corrected, with a huff. "I know they will."

"Perhaps they don't want to hurt you. Perhaps they want to help," Ms. Moore explained. However, Hermione only gave a stern look.

"No, they don't. Nobody can," Hermione said. She reminded herself to stop talking. She had to stop talking now; or she might say something she would regret afterwards. So Hermione dropped her hands to her legs before sighing. Hermione shut her eyes, letting the darkness devour her even only for a minute, and she said, "Is that good enough _talk_ for you?"

Ms. Moore smiled, "Well, I'll say it's better than our last session."

Hermione set her eyes toward the woman. She watched as the journal closed with the pen stuck on the last page it was on. The psychiatrist stood, making her way toward the desk, crouched; and Hermione waited. Soon, Ms. Moore went to Hermione and handed her a thin paper with inscription on the front. It was her prescription. Hermione took it without hesitation and rose.

"I'll see you in two weeks, okay?" Ms. Moore said. Her tone suddenly soothing; but Hermione didn't care. She felt her stomach flipping, and for a second, she feared she might vomit. Merlin, she needed to leave now. She didn't say anything else but she glanced for the last time; then she was gone.

.o.O.o.

Upon arriving at their apartment building, Hermione shivered at the cool October breeze brushing against the back of her neck. The sun has set already but Muggle London was still as crowded as it was this morning. Exhaustion crept up her spine. She craned her head back and tried to massage her neck as she headed to the mailboxes. Her finger hooked to the opening and took her mails in her cold hands. The hall before the stairs was quiet and unoccupied; so Hermione felt relieved for a moment as she checked her mails.

A moment passed, Hermione heard a door open. She looked back to see the manager's son come out. His name was Eddie, a young man in his early twenties with his blondish hair cut short. He was a Muggle, of course, totally unaware of who Hermione was. "Oh hi, Jeannie," Eddie greeted as he shut the door. It was a name that Hermione had introduced to the Muggles when she lived here because it reminded her of her father, who used to call her that when she was little.

"Hey, Ed," Hermione replied. "Tell Mr. Lewis that I'll have his rent tomorrow." She shut the mailbox and turned to the young man standing behind her. Hermione saw him completely, and realized that for three years, a once-scrawny teenager has turned into a fine young man. She smirked. Her mind has shifted into many what-ifs, but she stopped herself before she could go further.

"No worries about it," Ed chuckled, waving a hand. He grinned. Hermione saw how flashy his smile was, and she shuddered. Even if he did look like a fine young man, he was still a kid inside. "Luna gave us two-month advance. Just go talk to her. I think she has some visitors upstairs…"

Visitor _s_? More than one? Raising her brow, Hermione thought for a moment. Then she flashed a closed smile to the boy leaning against the wall before nodding. "Thanks, Ed. I'll see you around," she said before heading up the stairs to their flat. Her feet led her to the third floor where the flat she shared with Luna was located, and the moment she got off the stairs, Hermione could smell Luna's cooking. Her stomach started to growl in protest; but she ignored it.

Fishing for her keys, she fiddled it on the doorknob and pushed it inside. The door swung open to a narrow hall that led to their living room. "Luna?" Hermione called as she ripped her coat off her shoulders, throwing it at the door before she heard a small reply from inside. She placed the mail on the desk beside the shoe rack and followed the sound of Luna's voice. The heels of her shoes thumped against their floorboard, creation quite a welcoming noise, and as she reached the living room, she found two men standing around in business suits.

On the left side, nearer to the kitchen where Luna spun around, was Blaise Zabini. He looked fancy in that personally tailored suit with his coat buttoned at his abdomen. His hands were fiddling at the end of his sleeve, fixing whatever was creased. His eyes set on Hermione; and later on, followed by a toothy grin. Of course, he was smiling. There was not a moment in all the time Hermione has known Blaise that he wasn't smiling.

"Hey, Hermione," he gestured and leaned down to kiss her cheek. Damn, the scent of his strong perfume filled Hermione's lungs, and she almost swooned. "Glad you could join us. I was thinking you drowned in paperworks…" His dark eyes shifted to the other man standing close to Hermione. She followed his look and found Draco Malfoy standing in all his glory. Turning, Hermione faced him completely and let her eyes wander from his feet to his pale blond hair.

He wore a grey business suit. Under his coat was a black polo shirt that had its first two buttons loose. His hair was a striking shade of blond, and if he stood in the middle of the crowd, Hermione would immediately spot him. His hands tucked inside his pockets. His figure stood straight. She couldn't help but notice that his shoulders weren't too broad; in fact, it narrowly fit him in perfection. When Hermione locked eyes with him, she felt an uncomfortable twitch in her legs. Merlin, his eyes. It matched the color of his suit; and fuck, she dove into its depths. She wondered what she might find behind those grey irises. This was the first time she actually saw Draco Malfoy, standing and not hiding in some dark corner outside a hotel—and she cursed under her breath for how godly he looked.

"Malfoy," Hermione greeted. She fought herself from grinning too widely. But her voice remained cool as though those previous thought hadn't flooded her. "I'm surprised you've decided to come. You are here for dinner, I suppose?"

Malfoy twisted to face her, slightly. His body angled, and Hermione saw the vein on his temple twitching. Then he flashed a smile and said, "Well, Blaise speaks highly of Looney's cooking. Might as well give it a try, don't you think?"

Blaise snickered at their side. He crossed his arms, grimacing at Malfoy's words, but shook his head. Hermione saw a familiar connection between the two. Something she had seen with Harry and Ron before. Something she shared with her former friends. And all of the sudden, Hermione felt uncomfortable. She heard Blaise interrupt, "You're looking for a hard beating, Draco, if you keep calling Luna that." His voice tried to sound threatening but his eyes proved otherwise.

This was just a show of testosterone.

"Right," Hermione said. Then she looked at Luna, who seemed to be busy at the kitchen. She wasn't bothered by what they were talking about. Luna's eyes fixated on the oven. Luna always cooked food the Muggle way, because using magic was too easy. It didn't gave her enough control. Luna's hair was rolled in a messy bun with a few loosed waves hanging on the side of her face. "Well, I should go take a shower. Luna, can I talk to you for a minute?"

Luna snapped her head at Hermione. Her eyes drifted between Blaise and Malfoy before nodding to Hermione. Hermione strode past the two men and jerked her head toward the hall that led to their bedrooms, and stopped to her door, before facing Luna. Luna followed from behind and halted as Hermione did. A wave of silence flooded in that was immediately broken by Hermione's voice, saying, "Luna, Ed told me you've paid for the rent. Again. You've got to stop doing that."

Hermione pushed her door and walked in. Luna stayed at the doorframe, her hands fiddling on the apron that hang in front of her, before sighing. Luna knew that Hermione hated feeling helpless. She wanted to feel as if she could do the same things again without hindrance. Without hesitation. Without the feeling that she might crack again. She wanted to pay her share of their expenses. She wanted to work. She wanted to feel normal again. She wanted to feel that she was still alive, despite her feeling so rotten inside. No, not just rotten. Dead. She felt dead inside; and she wanted to stop feeling dead inside.

Luna began, "I know, Hermione. I just have a little more money to cover for two months. Plus, it's a good head start for you to get back on track."

Hermione looked at Luna. For Godric's sake, how long have they been flatmates? She tried to remember; and she did. When Hermione left her friends, Hermione was alone for about two weeks. She was offered to work for the Ministry of Magic but refused because she knew that it risked seeing Harry and Ron more. Hermione applied for a desk job at Gringotts, and even if they were keen on offering her something that paid more, she didn't care. She couldn't risk the exposure. Then, she crossed paths with Luna after a while, looking for a flatmate, and Hermione relented. She needed a place; but her salary covered only half of this dingy flat, so Luna's offer was better than sleeping on the streets.

Luna has been here since the beginning. Since that day in the bathroom. Since those two shining blue lines staring right back at her. Since that day at the doctor. Luna held her hand when she fidgeted too much. A spark between her and this blonde Ravenclaw was established; a connection, a bridge, a friendship. Merlin, Hermione almost gagged at the thought of a _friendship_. But Luna was the closest thing she has to a friend, if she wasn't already.

They have come a long way. And perhaps, there was more up ahead.

Hermione said, "I don't need a head start. I need to feel normal. I'm fine, so please spare me the pity party. I don't need it." She heard Luna sigh. Defeat, Hermione felt it as Luna stood in front of her. Both of them, with stones hanging on their backs and weighing them both down. But Hermione knew deeply that Luna has always been stronger than her.

"Okay," Luna said. "I must get back, though. You wouldn't want to eat a burnt pie, do you?"

Hermione felt herself smile. Luna returned it before shutting Hermione's bedroom door as she left. Hermione was left again in darkness. Her skin felt that cold atmosphere that covered her room. She shivered as she stood. One at a time, Hermione let her clothes hit the ground, stripping herself naked, and she went straight to the bathroom—connecting her room to Luna's. Her eyes immediately stared at her own reflection at the mirror the moment she entered, but tore it away before she could see.

See what a filthy woman she was.

Hermione's feet touched the chill tiles. She stepped into the bathtub, electricity coursing through the veins inside her legs, and opened the shower. Water fell on her quickly. The water wasn't cold; it was warm against her skin, her shoulders, her face, and her dark hair soaked together into one thick bundle. Slowly, Hermione's hair started to curl back in its original form. It trailed water against her back. It dripped on her curves, sliding down to her feet, and Hermione felt mouths kissing her skin. Touching her so affectionately just as the water. Merlin, heat rose in every inch of her figure. Her hands groped her sides, and she remembered; she remembered him.

Him. Him. Him. That man. He touched her when she didn't want to be touched. He touched her when she begged him to let her go. He touched her with such force and pressure that she hadn't felt in any of those men she slept with; and she wanted to drown that feeling. She couldn't succumb to it. She didn't want it. He entered her, her being, uninvited that Hermione did nothing for the last three years but close doors. But there was one door she couldn't close. The door that led to that night. She did everything, all of things, just to forget. Hermione shut everything off—but not this one. She couldn't. Why couldn't she? Why was it so hard for her to let it go?

Her hand wrapped around her throat. Just like how she grabbed her. She tightened it, and a while later she felt her own nails scraping against her skin. The itch trapped in each layer was etched like a tattoo. Hermione couldn't scrub it off. She couldn't claw it out. _Let loose, Hermione_ , she reminded herself. _Let it go. Don't hold it in._

Merlin. Her heart stormed inside her chest, making quite a mess, and she could hear it ringing in her ears. She took a deep breath.

After a few more minutes, Hermione stepped out. Her feet touched the dry tile outside the bathtub before parading herself toward the sink. She stared at herself in the mirror. Nothing was ever the same. Of course, nothing ever was. It had changed her; and she struggled so hard to accept that change. She couldn't change back. There was nothing waiting for her if she went back.

Dressed, Hermione emerged from the bedroom. Blaise and Malfoy shared a glass of red wine. Hermione assumed that Blaise brought that wine himself like he always did. Luna placed the plates on the table when Hermione reached the living room. Like before, she has cooked too much food again for all of them; and tomorrow, Luna would most likely throw it out again. Or give it to Mr. Lewis downstairs. Or to the stray cats and dogs on their corner alley.

"Dinner's ready," Luna called. The two men made their way to the dining table, led by Blaise, and Hermione sat next to Luna. Once they were all seated, Luna beamed at her guests to begin. Hermione took a slice of Luna's raspberry pie. The half of dinner was spent in silence until Malfoy gave his compliments regarding Luna's cooking, which put a cheeky smile on her face. Blaise, Luna, and Malfoy engaged in a casual conversation while Hermione listened. Their conversation revolved around business, Luna's work at The Quibbler, and gossip among friends. Hermione, however, wasn't part of that conversation. She knew that it was best to keep her opinions to herself about friends. She wasn't entitled to talk about that subject at all; so she ate in silence.

Malfoy began, "Before I forget, my Mother invites you to her annual Christmas ball. It's at the Manor, of course. I know that there were unpleasant memories regarding that place; but my Mother has spent a great deal of time remodeling it. She even scrubbed the walls off to get rid of the Dark Lord's filth."

"That seems nice," Luna commented. "Is Hermione invited too?"

Hermione lifted her head in surprise; but as she looked at Malfoy, his eyes strong enough to put a hole in her head, she knew the answer. "Yes, that means Granger is invited as well," Malfoy said. Her name in his mouth sounded warm as if he was actually breathing down her neck. She felt chills running on her spine as she sat, uncomfortable.

"That's wonderful," Luna beamed. Her hands clapped. Blaise smiled next to her with his arm draped on the back of her chair.

"Sure," Hermione said, for the first time. She didn't know what made her say that. But her mouth seemed to have lost control; so she pressed her lips into a thin smile to prevent herself from saying more. Her eyes flew to Malfoy and saw that his eyes were still staring at her. Pouring a glass of wine for herself, she took a long sip and let the bittersweet taste fill her mouth.

.o.O.o.

After dinner, Draco found himself standing near the living room window. His hand still holding a nearly-finished glass of Blaise's red wine. He saw the city, and he never thought that he'd be fascinated by Muggle London. He stared at the millions of lights that covered the landscape like stars that fell from the heaven; and heaven forbid, he could stare at it forever.

Blaise came behind him, hands in his pockets. He stood just a few inches from Draco's. Draco looked back to see his old mate staring at the blonde woman that moved around the kitchen so effortlessly. Draco knew already that Blaise was whipped; but seeing him now, Draco couldn't stop himself from chuckling to himself. Then Blaise turned to him at the sound of that laugh, raising an eyebrow, and asked, "What?"

"You are in trouble, my friend," Draco said. He placed hand over his friend's shoulder.

"Well, if she's that trouble, then I'm all in," Blaise snickered. He didn't look back at Loony, but instead he focused his look on Draco. Draco wondered what was going on in his mind, and before he could ask, Blaise said, "She's at the roof. If you want to talk to her…"

Draco tilted his face to see Blaise's properly. He saw a smirk on his friend's face. Draco raised an eyebrow, knowing fully well who he was talking about; but he chose to feign innocence and ask, "Who?"

"Hermione, of course. She stays there at the roof to give me and Luna space," Blaise said.

"So, is this you kicking me out so you and Looney can have some _space_?"

"Tosser," Blaise chuckled, accompanied with a roll of his eyes. "No, I just thought you might want to talk to her."

Draco felt his chest rising and falling. Deeper, higher. How could Blaise know what he was thinking? Salazar's snake, of course, Draco wanted to talk to her. There was something about that woman that poked on Draco's interest, and he didn't know what. He wanted to know. His body stiffened as he stood there next to Blaise, and Draco knew that Blaise knew him too well.

Too bloody well, indeed.

"Why would I want to talk to her?" Draco pried.

"You may be fooling Luna—or Hermione, for that matter—but you can never fool me, you know. You're too transparent for me," Blaise laughed. Then it faded into a grin. Cheeky bastard. "Tell me, Draco. How long have we been friends?"

"Since I toppled from my broomstick in your backyard at the age of seven," Draco groaned.

"Quite an awfully long time to get to know you, Draco." Blaise encouraged him with a tap on the back as he went back to check on his girlfriend. Blaise left with a smirk carved onto his face. Draco stood alone by the window for a moment before seeing Blaise touch Loony's shoulders. Merlin, Blaise was taunting Draco to leave because he knew that Draco would do anything else than watch him snog his girlfriend on the kitchen sink.

So Draco exited the living room. He reached the front door, and outside, he stood in an empty hall. Draco found the stairs that led to the rooftop. Unconsciously, his feet led him up to the next two floors. He found himself standing in front of a metal door before deciding to push it outside. A cold gush of wind welcomed him as he emerged to the rooftop.

Suddenly, Draco heard a soft voice asking him, "Are they snogging yet?"

He turned. Granger leaned her back on a sunbathing bed, her legs stretched down its length, and her left hand gripped on an uncapped bottle, dangling, as she lied there. Draco noticed her hair scattered into a bundle of mess over her head. She looked right at him, waiting for answer, and Draco barely managed to say, "Almost…"

"I figured as much," Granger said. She rested her head back. She brought the opening of the bottle to her mouth and swallowed. Draco took a step toward her. But he halted as he came only a few feet away from her, keeping his distance. "You want a drink? It's not Firewhiskey, but it's just as strong," Granger pushed the bottle toward Draco and shook the water-like content inside.

"No, thank you," Draco said. Granger shrugged, taking a full gulp again from the bottle. Merlin, she drunk like a man; and he didn't know why he felt unusual about it. He didn't know Granger. He only knew her as someone he bullied in Hogwarts. He only knew her as someone beneath him as his father pressed him that idiotic pureblood ideology. He only knew her as a prude, know-it-all, who bossed everyone around her. But this Granger—he didn't know her. Not even close. She hardly resembled that Granger in his memory. Her chestnut hair had turned into a dark wave, her movements were rash and unpredictable, and her eyes… Fuck, her eyes penetrated him with an unfamiliar look. Not of hatred; but of… something else.

"Well, did you like Luna's cooking, then?" Granger asked, breaking the silence that filled the air. Before that, all they heard was the city noise. Draco looked back to Granger. His eyes casted upon her, eyeing her small movements, how her arms swayed, how her head turned from side to side, and her throat bobbing—fuck, he internally groaned at the sight of her.

He shifted his stand. "It's good. Better than I had expected," he said. Draco set his eyes into the city again, and this time, he had a better view. He could see the lights clearer. He could hear the loud noise that came from the cars that drove past Granger's building. He could feel the wind on his face. He could see the world as if it were just at the tip of his hand. He could see the moon that didn't bother to hide behind the thin, white clouds, and around it were the stars scattered like white pearls on a black cloth.

Draco thought about what made him come to this dinner. Blaise had been the one who invited him, said that he needed to try Loony's cooking even at least once in his life. Draco had dinner with his mother every night; so perhaps, he thought it would be nice to eat something that wasn't elf-made. And he didn't regret coming here. Loony's cooking, as Blaise put it, was marvelous; and Draco wouldn't have admitted it out loud but he thought that Loony cooked better than the house elves. What he didn't understand was why she cooked without the use of magic. He watched Loony toss and turn around the kitchen, measuring ingredients, heating things in the oven or stove; but it would've been done a lot easier—and faster—with magic.

Draco faced Granger again. She had almost finished the bottle now all by herself. But he didn't ask. It made him wonder; but whatever she did, he tried not to care too much. Draco wasn't someone who cared. Only a handful of people deserved caring, and Draco limited it to his mother and Blaise. Others were just added benefits. But something about Granger—this Granger—that piqued his curiosity.

"I'm surprised you don't live with Weasel," Draco said. Granger tilted her face toward him. She looked at him with surprise in her eyes; but Draco could tell that she attempted tone it down. "Didn't you two date back in Hogwarts?"

Granger snorted. She tore her eyes away.

Draco remembered what that bint, Penelope Marsh, had said. Granger wasn't friends with Scarhead and Weasel anymore. She hasn't contacted them. She had disappeared from their radar. He thought what had happened that made her leave. Or was it them who left? He didn't know. He didn't have the answers to the questions forming in his head.

Granger lifted the bottle again and took a swig. After swallowing, she said, "I don't talk to them anymore. We haven't talked for years." Those words coming out of Granger's mouth confirmed Penelope Marsh's gossip. Only, it wasn't gossip anymore. It was a fact; and Draco saw pain flashing in her eyes. He could've sworn that her eyes were glinting as she looked away.

"Why not?"

She looked at him. There was a tight smile twitching at the corner of her lips. She said, "Things don't stay forever, Malfoy. Things change."

But what changed? He wanted to ask; but pulled back his tongue before he could ask. He felt the inside of his mouth watering as he tried to keep himself from talking. He sighed, before leaning against the edge of the rooftop. Silence filled in the distance between Draco and Granger. He lost all the words he wanted to say to her.

Then all of the sudden, her voice came to him in surprise.

"Do you want to _fuck_ me?" She asked him. Draco jerked his head back. Shock rushed through his skin as he felt his neck heating up. But when he saw her, that look on her face, she wasn't kidding. She wasn't asking it to spite him or test him; she was asking him a real question.

"What?"

"I said—"

"Granger, I heard you the first time. But why?" Draco asked, interrupting her as she repeated her question. Then to answer his question, she began to laugh. Not giggle, not chuckle. But a hysterical laughter erupting from her mouth.

She shrugged and said, "Oh, I don't know. It might be fun."

 _Fun?_ Is he hearing this right? Granger just thought of _fucking around_ as _fun_. Draco was in absolute shock, followed with confusion. He didn't know what to say. Thinking like a Neanderthal, Draco would've said yes. But thinking like a being with such sense of rationality, he would say no. He stared at Granger—eyes moving across her body. Merlin, she looked marvelous. He wondered what it would've felt to touch her skin with his bare hands. He wondered the taste of her lips grazing upon his own. And Draco felt the need to swallow his tongue back before he could say something insanely stupid.

Granger pressed, "So? Do you?"

Draco ran his hand through his hair and chuckled, nervously, before saying, "That would be nice. But I'll have to refuse…"

He saw as she raised an eyebrow at him. He waited for a smart retort; but nothing followed. Except for one word, and something that Draco hadn't anticipated, "Shame." Her voice sounded cool; and Draco got lost in their conversation. How in Merlin's name did they reach this point of conversation?

All Draco could do was stare at her.

"I take it you've been informed of my reputation," Granger said, as if she was proud of it. A smile played along her lips. Draco tried his best to read her face; but he couldn't. She was a blank canvas to him, waiting to be painted and explored with colors. "Wizarding London's biggest slag," she drawled the words and a chuckle escaped her lips.

Draco asked, "Are you proud of it?"

Granger laughed again. Then she shook her head playfully; but Draco didn't think it was the answer. She must've shaken her head as a reaction to how idiotic his question was. "In fact, I am. It flashes on a large marquee on the top of my head, blinking and screaming for everyone to shag me," Granger replied. Draco thought if she was telling the truth for he didn't know. She was such an enigma to him; a puzzle that he cannot piece together.

She didn't make sense. Not of it made sense.

"Why?"

"What do you mean, _why_?"

"Why do you do it?"

"Do what? Shag?" Granger continued to laugh. Then she took another swig from her bottle. It took her a moment, as thought she savored the taste of alcohol in her mouth, then she swallowed. Draco heard her, "I have no business with other people if we're not shagging. In case you haven't noticed, I don't have friends. I don't do friends." Granger's voice had suddenly turned into something sad and an unmistakable hint of loneliness. But Draco continued to watch her. He still didn't recognize her.

She hid. All he could see was a façade; and she hid it well.

"What about Loony? Or Blaise?" Draco pressed, waiting for her to look at him again.

"They're not my friends. They're just some people I know. Some people I interact with. Friend is such a terrible label to describe them," Granger said, flatly.

Before Draco could ask more, Granger stood. She took the half-filled bottle with her, parading across the rooftop toward the door where they both came in, and turned back to Draco before she left. "Good night, Malfoy," then she went inside the building.

Again, Draco was left alone with his own thoughts.

* * *

 _A/N: Longest chapter... so far. Wow. Your reviews about the previous chapter are really wonderful. So much gratitude for all the support and patience. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this one. Reviews are, again and always will be, appreciated. Apologies for the errors. Thank you!_


	6. Chapter Four

**Chapter Four**

 **DEAD FRIENDS**

 _October 10, 2001_

Her childhood memories were vague.

She tried to remember. How it felt to be normal. How her life was before she received that her admittance letter to Hogwarts. How it felt to be innocent, clueless, and without scars. But all she could grasp from the corner of her mind was nothing but a glimpse. She shut her eyelids to remember, to imagine, but her mind seemed to have locked these doors tight.

As if mocking her, telling her that there was no way back. No matter how much she tried to remember. It was impossible for her to remember how it felt. How it sent shivers to her spine whenever she cracked into a laugh without a hint of malice. How it gave her freedom for a few minutes. How it latched open an escape route in her mind, to take her back to the past and relive those moments. But whenever Hermione opened her eyes again, she still stood in the same place as she was.

Nothing changed.

She was still that woman. That woman who changed.

Her father, Jonathan Granger, used to spend an hour—or sometimes, two—at night to tuck Hermione to bed. She remembered the sound of his voice reading her a bedtime story. Every night, she requested him to read her all about Greek mythology since her name came from one of the characters. Her father would flip the pages, his voice speaking the words written on each line, each paragraph, and each period—until Hermione fell asleep. She dreamt of being in the story her father had told her. Sometimes, she was a damsel in distress. Sometimes, she was just a minor character. Sometimes, she was a mythical creature. But she was never the hero. She always needed to be saved; but now, Hermione wished that she had learned to save herself before.

Perhaps then, she could save herself now.

"Hi, Dad," Hermione said as she stared at the large headstone planted on the ground. Her eyes glanced at the engraving that read: _Jonathan Granger; October 10, 1950 – August 13, 2000; a loving husband, father, and friend_. Last year, Hermione's father passed after fighting a nasty battle with cancer. The doctors said that the cancer has spread too much in most of his organs for him to start any form of therapy. None of them anticipated this to happen; but Hermione knew that death surprises us all at the end of the tunnel. She understood death better than anyone. She befriended death, meeting him in every bottle of alcohol she wasted or in every pill she swallowed or in every men she touched; but her father didn't. She welcomed death with open arms, but he still ignored her plea to take her.

Her father was her first best friend. He taught her how to ride a bike before she could ride a broom. He taught of all kinds of magic that the mind can comprehend before she even knew of Hogwarts. He taught her about the world. And most importantly, he taught her about life.

Today was his birthday. His fifty-first birthday.

Their last conversation visited her again as if a ghost waiting to be seen. Shutting her eyes, Hermione found herself standing next to her father while he sat on his rocking chair. She placed a soft blanket over him and saw his head tilt toward her, recognizing her presence, and she beamed a slight smile. " _Hi, Dad. Is there anything you need?_ "

Her father shook his head and said, " _Just you. Stay._ "

Hermione felt a twitch in her ribs. Rotten flowers inside began to come alive again when she saw him smile back at her. " _Of course_ ," she said, dragging a seat for her. Silence filled in. Hermione heard nothing but his heavy breathing along with the wind howling. " _Tell me, Dad. Are you afraid?_ " Hermione asked, quietly.

Her father said, coughing in between his words, " _Jeannie, I'm not. Death is inevitable. It's the next great adventure, isn't it?_ " She found his eyes, in the exact same shade as hers, and found him calm as he spoke. He was always brave, and that was one of the greatest things he had shared with her. Death wouldn't be enough to scare him—or her. " _You don't have to tell me, Jeannie. But I know you well enough to know that there is something that bothers you. You're not the same Jeannie; but no matter what, I still love you… Always, sweetheart. Always…_ "

Tears fell from her face. And Hermione was back into reality.

She placed the daisies she picked from the nearby flower shop across her apartment building on the headstone. Her father wasn't an extravagant man. He was ambitious; but he appreciated the little things. Even if it were only daisies on his grave, Hermione was sure that it would put a smile on his face. Merlin, how she wished she could see him smile again.

But of course, he only now existed in her memory.

"Mum's busy at the moment. You know, work. She works a lot now since you've gone. She scheduled too many classes and seminars that she hasn't even got the time to phone me," Hermione said out loud. She tucked her frozen fingers deep into her pockets as she stood there. The weather report said that chances of snow might occur earlier this year; and Hermione felt her skin absorbing the cold breeze of mid-October. Storm clouds loomed across the grey skies, but she thought that perhaps the weather only sympathized with her grief. "But, it doesn't matter. She copes, and I cope… Can't blame us for trying to be okay, can you?" Pause. She swallowed the lump in her throat. What was it that she needed to say? Hermione had prepared herself a speech before she reached the cemetery; but all words that she gathered seemed to have been lost now. "Sorry it took me a long time to come here. It wasn't easy seeing your name on a headstone. I think I'll never get used to it. But I also feared that having to stand here, I need to confess. I know I didn't tell you what happened; and I don't think I can now. Or ever. I even haven't told anyone. It wouldn't do any good, really. It will just mess things up; and I'll break. Like glass. And you know that I never liked anyone seeing me like this. So vulnerable… Anyway, I miss you, Dad. Wait for me, okay?"

Too much words. She hasn't said that much words to anyone in the last three years. Her words were always vague, just as her childhood memories, because it cloaked her from being seen for what she truly was. She couldn't let them see. It would raise questions, speculate answers, and her past would be exposed into the world faster than she could close it.

She needed him to wait for her. Perhaps in a little while longer, death would actually consider her request to take her away. Perhaps her tunnel had been cut short and death stood upon the end with a grim smile on his face.

 _Wait for me, Dad_.

.o.O.o.

Blaise Zabini was an idiot. But Draco was a much bigger idiot.

Blaise had said, "It'll be fine. If you want to know her, then take her out. Besides, it isn't like you haven't got an excuse. Just tell her that I can't leave the office at the moment—"

Draco winced. His shoes rooted against the floorboards right outside her apartment. Under his business suit, perspiration gathered on the space on his back, around his neck, and even his legs soaked. He realized that this was a huge mistake; but for some unknown reason, he couldn't simply turn and leave. He felt so heavy as he stood there, and the moment he made a move, his entire body seemed to break. His bones felt as if they shattered underneath his muscles.

What in Merlin's bloody name was happening to him?

Lifting his pale knuckles to knock, he heard a soft voice: "Malfoy?" His head turned, seeing Granger standing at the end of the hall where the stairs were. She wore a dark trench coat, red blouse, and denim jeans that seemed too normal. Her dark hair gathered into a tie behind her head. Her face was bare and plain, and he thought that she looked better as this—without a mask. The look on her face was a strong combination of surprise and confusion; and Draco tried his best not to laugh right now.

He put his hand down before facing her completely. Granger stepped, and they met in front of Granger's next door neighbor, halting just a few steps from him. She felt so close to him that he could feel her pulse radiating in the small space between them. Or perhaps that was just the heat. He fisted his hands, feeling its damp surface underneath, and cursed himself in his mind for being such a bloody pansy.

"What are you doing here?" Granger asked, clutching to the sleeves of her coat.

"Blaise sent me," he spoke. His throat was unclear as if he had swallowed a stone. It pained him to swallow, but he managed to say, "He couldn't make it to dinner. He had so much to do at the office; so he sent me instead."

"He could've just owled me," Granger remarked. The lines on her face showed. Her eyes dark under the dim light across the hall where they both stood; and Draco wondered how deep he could swim under those brown irises. "I can just stay in. You didn't have to come here to tell me that—"

 _So naïve, Granger_ , he thought.

"No," Draco smirked. He pushed his hands in his pockets before adding, "He sent me to take you to dinner. I know that Loony's off the charts since she was tasked to cover for the World Quidditch Cup for The Quibbler, and Blaise couldn't even take a minute off his papers; so he asked me to fill in at the moment. I believe that this is rather a regular event; so it'd be best if we just carry on."

Granger stood as though he has petrified her. Her eyes widened a little before narrowing them back. Draco waited for a response. He kicked the floor with his left feet when he heard her say, "And you agreed to do this?"

He opened his mouth; but he found his voice faltering. _What the hell_ —he cleared his throat and adjusted his posture. Granger stood in front of him, waiting. But he didn't know what she was waiting for. When the lump in his throat dissolved, he replied, "Yes, I did. Is that so hard to believe?"

"No, of course not. I'd be glad to have dinner with you," Granger said. Her shoulders relaxed. Her cheeks were bright pink, and Draco watched her lips tugging its ends into a sly smirk. "I'm simply concerned that this might tarnish your reputation by having dinner with me. I'm not exactly a well-mannered woman, as you've heard from Pansy."

Draco rolled his eyes. "Well, I think that you are more well-mannered than Pansy herself," he remarked, earning a wider grin from Granger.

She chuckled, "Don't let her hear you say that, Malfoy."

"Let her have it, then," Draco played. He smirked at the thought of Pansy Parkinson hearing him say that. She would have a seizure and be sent to St. Mungo's for having a cardiac arrest. Even when he dated Pansy back in Hogwarts, he always thought of her as a nosy bitch. She couldn't keep herself from sticking her damn nose out of people's business. Now Draco thought of a valid reason as to why he even contemplated about dating that woman; and yet, he found none.

Granger let out a sigh and said, "Let me change first. Then we'll go to _Les Deux Salons_."

Draco waited at her living room while she changed. She didn't have photographs. Her flat was rather plain and under-decorated; and he thought of his mother ever visiting here, she would have a fit. Narcissa Malfoy was hell-bent on decorations and anything that screams extravagant. Perhaps the only room in the Malfoy Manor that wasn't decorated as much was his bedroom. Other rooms were signified with wood carvings, expensive and ancient ornaments, and highly expensive rugs and porcelain plates. Merlin, his mother did her best to control everything after the war.

He knew, and he agreed. Both of the remaining Malfoys had survived the war. Draco had lost control of his life while his mother had lost control of hers. After the war, his mother insisted that they remodel the entire Manor again as somewhat regaining what they had lost.

"Malfoy?" Draco turned when he heard Granger call for him. His eyes easily landed on the single woman standing across the living room wearing an elegant emerald dress partnered with a pair of high heels that made her legs awfully long. Her hair, still dark, cascaded down her covered shoulders. But her face—she had covered her eyes again with that dark make-up that Draco could barely see her eyes through. Then he snapped out of his thoughts when he heard her ask, "Shall we?" Another lump formed in his throat, and he nodded when he found himself wordless once more.

London skies were dark as they both emerged from her apartment building. Muggle vehicles passed across the street. Their walk was slow and quiet. None of them talked; or perhaps, none of them was brave enough to speak up at the moment. Draco was certain that he wasn't. He was raised with high self-esteem; but somehow, standing this close to Granger, his confidence sunk to the bottom of the ocean. He wanted to ask her things but none of those things felt right. He wanted to ask her what had changed, what ended her friendship with her two idiotic Gryffindor friends, and what turned her into this. But he couldn't find his voice whenever he tried to talk.

What was she doing to him? _No_ , he told himself. _What are_ you _doing to yourself?_

Upon arriving at the restaurant, both of them were welcomed by the receptionist. The restaurant was quite crowded; but there were a few tables and booths still unoccupied. Granger requested for the same corner booth he had found her sitting on the first time he saw her. Soon after they were seated, Granger ordered for a half-bottle of white wine while Draco only watched as she did her routine. The waiter who attended to their needs smiled at Granger as if she was a regular customer. It wouldn't surprise Draco if she was. Shortly after their orders were given, Draco asked, "How often do you come here?"

Granger sipped her wine and smiled, "My reservations are every Wednesday at six o'clock. Most evenings, I eat alone. On some occasions, I bring Luna and Blaise. Even Daphne…"

Draco nearly choked. His tongue retreated back to his throat when he heard that name. Granger giggled at his reaction, waiting. Not long, Draco gained his tongue back and echoed, "Daphne? Daphne _Greengrass_?"

"Yes. Aren't you two _friends_?"

The blond let his mind wander for a moment. Were he and Daphne friends? No, of course not. Draco had dated her younger sister, Astoria, for about three months; and when it ended, Draco hasn't seen Daphne again. He was particularly fond on that woman for he thought that she actually has more sense and about two handfuls of brain cells compared to Pansy Parkinson. The extent of his relationship with Daphne was boring small talks and second-hand information from his friends.

Draco stared at Granger, and answered, "We're _acquaintances_." He paused for a moment and studied Granger's face. Both of them, wrapped in a comfortable silence, and Draco watched her movements. Her hand light as it held the wine glass close to her nose, inhaling the intoxicating scent. Even her lashes fluttering as she glanced sideways. And even if Draco pretended not to notice, he couldn't lie to himself that he noticed everything. "I didn't realize you were…" Draco paused again as he realized that she hated the word _friends_. Then he finished, "…associates."

Granger hummed in agreement. She didn't elaborate further. Slowly, their small talk drowned over the loud chatter in background. Draco watched her while she tried her best to distract herself—although, he didn't know from what. Draco brought his glass to his lips, taking a small sip, and he allowed his eyes to look across the restaurant.

Then he saw them. His heart beat slowed as he stared right through the crowd gathering outside and landed his eyes on a certain black haired man and an unmistakable redhead. _Merlin's fucking balls_. He cursed under his breath, but loud enough for Granger to look up at him, and he swore that she saw what he was staring at. Draco faced her—and her fairly colored face had gone white at the sight. She didn't move; and for a moment he thought that she couldn't. She went rigid when she saw two familiar faces in the crowd.

 _It was Saint Potter and his sidekick, the Weasel_ , Draco grumbled.

"Granger?" He called for her, and when he met her eyes, he unmistakably felt her pain. Something that she had been hiding behind her façade. Draco didn't know what caused it or what was triggered; but he felt it. It buzzed from his arms, his back, his neck, and to the tip of his damn fingers. Then he asked, "Do you want to leave? There are other restaurants on the block—"

Granger cleared her throat. He saw as her hands balled into fists as if she prepared for a fight. Then she said, "No. It's alright. I'm fine…"

Draco heard it. Hiding behind those words were lies. Soon, their orders arrived. Draco watched as Granger began eating, taking sips of wine between her small bites, but Draco found the silence overbearing. It was too uncomfortable. He wanted to take her arm and drag her out; but he remained stiff in his seat. Both of them fell back into silence. He couldn't move. He didn't know what else to say. _Goddamn, Blaise_ , he swore in his mind. Draco watched her. The rise and fall of her chest as a result of her slow breathing, air coming out of her mouth in an attempt to calm her nerves. Her eyes shifting across the table but she wasn't looking up. Her hand clenched under the table. And he thought of what she was doing—she was hiding again.

Behind that mask.

Behind all her walls.

"Malfoy," Granger muttered without looking at him. "Please eat. I won't allow you to simply sit there to meditate. Let's make this night _bearable_ , shall we?"

Merlin. _What in Salazar's fucking mercy was happening?_

Draco met her look as she raised her eyes. Layers upon layers, Draco couldn't penetrate what was happening inside her head. This woman continued to catch him off guard with unexpected character. Something that Draco had never seen before. This Granger was a book written in a foreign language that he hadn't learned to read yet; and it bothered him that he couldn't read her. Her words vague. Her actions undetermined. Draco dreaded to think about her like this.

Because reading her meant that he was venturing unexplored corners.

"Tell me, Granger—"

Draco began but was interrupted at the sound of two irritating voices approaching their personal space. A glance to his left, his school adversaries arrived at their table with a familiar sense of fury in their eyes. Fury that Draco was certain directed to him. Good gracious, Merlin, he was never a fan of these two gits. To his right, Granger lifted her head to meet their gaze.

"Hermione, what are _you_ doing with _Malfoy_?" Potter demanded, while Weasley prepared himself to lunge at Draco. He stressed on Draco's last name as if it was blasphemous. _Stupid git_ , Draco thought with a roll of his eyes.

Granger giggled, "We're have a lovely dinner, aren't we, Malfoy?"

"Well, it was indeed lovely before these two polluted the air with their presence," Draco smirked.

"Since when have you ditched us for this _ferret_?" It was Weasley who spoke. Couldn't he have thought of a better insult other than ferret? For Salazar's sake, this was getting old. Weasley pointed his finger toward Draco with such an accusing attitude; but Draco remained unaffected.

"Seriously, Weasley," Draco began. A sudden burst of confidence came over him quite quickly. "You think she'd hang out with you after judging her character by the choice of her _friends_?" From the corner of his eyes, he noticed Granger wince at his word. Friends. No, Merlin, they weren't friends. She told him before that she didn't do friends.

"Oh, 'Mione, please don't tell us that you are _friends_ with this git—"

"My choice of company is none of your business, Ronald. I suggest you stay out of it," Granger said—her voice suddenly stern. Draco hadn't heard her talk to Weasley with this attitude in quite a long time and he couldn't help but smirk.

Potter scowled, glaring at Draco, while saying: "You ignore us for three goddamn years, Hermione. And, here we see you having—what? Dinner with Malfoy? Do you even remember what he said to you all those years in Hogwarts? He called you a m—"

Granger rose from her seat. The table shook as her legs hit the edge. There was a palpable heat surrounding all four of them. Draco saw her shoulders stiff, her hands clenched to her sides, and her eyes shaking as she stared at her two former friends. She groveled to the rage she felt in her bones. Then Draco heard her, "Don't you dare, Harry. I can't do this right now. I don't want to talk to _you_ —" and she turned to Weasley, "—or _you_. For Godric's sake, you couldn't take a bloody hint. _Leave me alone_. Now if you'll excuse me, I'll go to the bathroom." Granger threw her napkin onto her plate and stomped toward the bathroom.

Draco remained seated while the two idiots stood rather shocked. His fingers lifted the rim of his glass to his mouth to drink. Merlin, this wine was marvelous. Looking up, Draco noticed Potter and Weasley looking at each other before he said, "Look, I don't know what the two of you did to her. Must be fucking awful that she doesn't even want to see you. But I think that I'd be best if you follow her advice. Leave her alone…"

"The fuck we would!" Weasley growled at Draco's words, attracting a few audience from the restaurant. "Don't you bloody think that we would leave her alone with you—"

"Yes, Weasley," Draco snapped. His grey eyes loomed over Weasley's with a threatening look. What was Draco prepared to do if Weasley didn't back down? Merlin, he didn't know. "I believe you will. Because that request did not come from me. It came directly from her, and if you really know her _at all_ , you should know that she means it well."

Potter accused, "Did you _imperius_ her? I will arrest you—"

Draco couldn't contain his laughter. Merlin, who knew that this git could be anymore moronic? He found Potter and Weasley growling like rabid dogs in front of him. "Well, you may arrest me. If you can provide an evidence that I actually did. Otherwise, you'd be restraining me because your goddamn ego," Draco dared, a smirk curving at the end of his thin lips.

Weasley advanced to punch Draco; but Potter caught a grip on his arm before looking over the customers at the restaurant. Slowly, Weasley backed down. His face still flushed in anger, his blood boiling underneath his skin, and his chest heaving. "Blimey, I can't believe she was ever friends with you. You don't bloody know her at all," Draco chuckled at the thought; but remembered that he didn't as well.

"And you do?"

"No, of course not," Draco said. He knew in himself that he didn't know her at all. The Granger he knew was someone who wouldn't have done the things he had heard she had been doing for the last three years. He continued, "But at least I'm not pretending to know her completely like the two of you…"

Before Potter or Weasley could retort back, Granger returned to their table. Her face was flushed; her eyes were swollen; and her fingers were slightly shaking. Draco was certain that none of the two men noticed a change in her appearance as compared to how she looked earlier, but Draco did. He had been watching her closely that it was impossible not to notice anything.

Granger interrupted their bickering, "Shall we go, Malfoy? I'm rather tired. Walk me home."

It wasn't a request. It was a demand.

He heard her silent plea, her voice cracking: _she needed leave now_.

Potter and Weasley looked as if both of them were about to vomit. That would've been a sight. Draco stood from his seat, leaving some money to pay for their dinner, before escorting Granger out of the restaurant. He placed a hand at the small of her back, and fuck, he swore that she shuddered under his touch. Draco watched as Granger walk ahead when he felt Potter's hand gripping his upper arm and snarling with fangs ready to attack him, "I don't know what's happening here. But if you do as much to hurt her, I will _fucking_ kill you. Slowly."

Draco smirked, "You're not exactly entitled to threaten me, are you? You _hurt_ her too; and don't tell me that you didn't because even if you didn't say the words, your eyes said otherwise. She saw it, Potter. Don't think for one second that you know her."

Was he actually defending Granger?

Before he could contemplate about he had said, Draco followed Granger toward the exit. And together, they left.

.o.O.o.

Stumbling inside the bathroom, Hermione managed to drag her numb feet toward the nearest cubicle. She crouched down at the toilet. The tiny bites of her fettucini came out of her mouth. The sour acid rising up in her stomach tasted nasty as she vomited the few bites she had taken earlier. Afterwards, she flushed her vomit and slumped against the cold marble floor.

Her hands were trembling terribly. She tried to suppress her panic when they arrived at their table; but as she released her fists from being closed, her fingers started to shake uncontrollably. Her tight chest rising into shallow bits of breaths. Her head fuzzy as if all doors in her mind had been opened again. Tears began to stream down her face, and she let out a soft sob. There was a thorn lodged in the middle of her chest as she sat there—what was she going to do?

God. Hermione couldn't look at them. She couldn't look at _him_. The door to that particular night opened wider, and flashes of his eyes—his _fucking_ hair—assaulting Hermione once more. She strangled a cry as she remembered. His lips trailing hungry kisses all over her body, bathing her in alcohol and saliva, and she was there again. His large hands tightening to hold her arse as he pounding in and out of her without mercy. His weight pinning her down, robbing her of her strength, her dignity, her femininity.

In her hand, she clutched a tiny bottle of whiskey that she hid inside her purse. Hermione never forgot to take a tiny liquor bottle with her whenever she left. She never knew when she might need it—and Merlin, she needed it now. The drink dissolved into her tongue as she poured it down inside her mouth, without stopping, until there was nothing left. She swallowed. Her breathing slowed; her hands rested on the cold floor; her head lighter; her eyes blurring; her legs weakening; her shoulders slumping; and her face heating up.

Hermione pushed herself to stand.

She needed to leave now.

Wiping the traces of tears across her cheeks, Hermione left. She returned to their table, seeing as her two former friends still hasn't left, and she heard Malfoy saying, "No, of course not. But at least I'm not pretending to know her completely like the two of you…"

Hermione looked at Malfoy. She noticed the flushed faces of her two former friends before she said, "Shall we go, Malfoy? I'm rather tired. Walk me home." She didn't look at Harry or Ron. She couldn't. If she did look, she was certain that she wouldn't make it out alive. Malfoy dropped a few Muggle bills on the table before rising from his seat. As she walked, she felt his hand against a small spot on her back sending electric currents upon her spine. His hand were seemed calloused, hard, and cold; and when he removed it, the presence of his hand was still lingering against her skin.

Turning back, she found that Malfoy stood next to Harry with his arm being held back. She stopped dead on her tracks to drag him; but she saw that Malfoy was defending himself from whatever Harry had told him. Then Malfoy followed her before both of them began their walk, not realizing that it had been pouring outside.

Hermione opened the doors to her apartment building as they arrived. She came in, Malfoy following her from behind, and she felt the warm atmosphere down the front hall. Both of them walked under the downpour that covered Muggle London. The hem of her dress dripped with rainwater, but she didn't care. Not right now. Moving up the stairs, a door opened and Ed came out, with a sudden worried look on his face. "Hi, Jeannie. You alright?" Ed asked, eyeing Malfoy warily.

Hermione croaked a reply as she made her trip upstairs. She almost tripped; but Malfoy's hand caught her elbow. Hermione looked back—their eyes locking for a second—before she let out a sigh and continued. Together, they soon reached toward her flat. She flung the door open and stumbled—her ankles swaying, her vision blurring even more, and her head felt as if it was floating. Malfoy kept holding her elbow; and Hermione faced him as the door shut behind him.

Malfoy held his stance in front of her. Waiting. His hands buried in his pockets. His hair was drenched as well, a few drops falling from the tips, and under his business coat was a damp white polo that reflected a little of his chest. He hadn't said anything ever since they left the restaurant. And Hermione was neither eager to talk. She wanted to do anything else other than _talk_. Hermione shifted her gaze on his jawline and on that little spot where his pulse was. She imagined herself touching him there. Biting it. Licking it. She imagined him growling against her ears, and she wondered what it would've sounded like. Then she heard him say, "Granger, I should—"

She saw his eyes. Grey. Her heart thudded, and she knew what she was going to do now. Hermione took a large step with her fingers hooking around his collar. The fabric curled around her hands, and she pushed him. Malfoy staggered back against the door. His torso hitting the barrier between him and the outside made Hermione press herself to him. She let out a grunt, before saying, "Malfoy. Kiss me…"

* * *

 _A/N: Cliffhanger, I know. Kill me. But it's not what it looks like. Stay tuned for more. Apologies for the errors, gratitude for the support. Reviews are strongly recommended for the improvement of this story and highly appreciated. 'Til next time! All characters and references belong to J.K. Rowling._


	7. Chapter Five

**Chapter Five**

 **REMNANTS OF THE WAR**

 _October 14, 2001_

Draco leaned back onto his office chair and decided to shut his eyes for a second. His desk was towered with paper works. He had been looking at the same papers for the past four hours. And yet his mind wandered through his thoughts plaguing him since the tenth of October. His shoulders were heavy as though something was sitting atop and his stomach lurched as his thoughts penetrated his mind deeper.

He remembered that night. He could remember the seconds that went by like hours. Ticking in his ears like the old grandfather clock at the Manor. Slow, painfully passing. Fuck, he remembered her warm and soft hands, her tongue, her dark eyes, and her legs— _everything_. And without realizing, he remembered the moment she pushed him against her front door.

" _Malfoy. Kiss me—"_

 _He heard her. It was a command; and before he could say anything else, she was unto him. His mind went static after she pushed him against the door. His body responding unconsciously along with her movements. Draco realized then that he had lost control of his body—_

 _Granger's fingers curled around the collar of his coat, and through the cold rainwater dripping from his shirt, he could feel her heat. She leaned forward. Her trembling lips lingering over his. He swore that he could smell alcohol in her breath—not wine, but something stronger. Something that triggered his arousal even more. He lifted his hands to touch the side of her cheeks before he moved to press a kiss on her mouth; but his lips touched the tight corner of her jaw that connected to her neck as she tilted her face away from him._

 _She moaned, "Not there. Anywhere but there…" Draco wanted to ask her about it; but small talk wasn't an option at that moment. He pressed his cold lips against her throat and thrusted his tongue to taste her better—and Merlin's fuck, she tasted wonderful. Better than any alcohol he had tasted tonight. His back pinned against the wooden door, and Granger wrapped up in front him. Her fingers tightening its grip on his collar. Draco moved his hands down to her shoulders, slipping the sleeves of her dress down her arms, before his fingers hooked around her waist. His hands locked them both into a tight embrace that was too gripping._

 _Not wanting to let go._

" _Granger—" Draco groaned as she pressed her hips against his, meeting the growing bulge in his slacks. But she didn't answer. Instead, she peppered wet kisses against his jawline. Her teeth grazing upon his skin, resulting into another grunt from Draco's throat. He heard her smirk at his reaction. "—we should… We should stop—"_

 _Granger didn't remove her mouth from his neck. Her breath dampened over his pulse that he felt his heart beating erratically. Then she breathed, "Do you want me to stop?" Her words didn't falter. He couldn't hear a hint of doubt in her voice; instead, she sounded… determined._

" _Merlin, no—"_

" _Then, shut up and fuck me," Granger growled as she reached his ears. She nibbled his earlobe, and before either of them realized what had happened, Draco hoisted her legs and rolled over. Granger let out a gasp as her back hit the door with a loud thud with the pale blonde pressed between her slender legs. He was certain that she could feel him against her hips, bucking them more, and she groaned. Her eyes rolled to the back of her head in pure ecstasy._

 _Merlin, this woman was killing him. There was no time to think. Either this was stupid or a terrible mistake, he didn't care anymore._

 _Granger unbuttoned his coat and pushed the sleeves off his arms. She discarded it into the ground. Draco dragged her dress down. Everything was happening fast. Neither of them could even comprehend what was happening. Draco tried to think of his senses—but he had lost it. He couldn't look at her, eyes shut tight; but his hands found her breasts, touching the tiny space in between them and the curve that shaped it. Salazar Slytherin must be rolling in his fucking grave right now—but Draco cared less and less. The buttons of his white polo clattered after Granger ripped it open without hesitation, and Draco groaned when her mouth sent sloppy kisses around his collarbone to his chest._

" _Granger, fuck!" Draco hissed as he grabbed her hands and pinned them against the door. His fingers pressed against her wrists, feeling her quickened pulse. His grey eyes met her brown ones—glaring. He growled, "What the fuck are we doing?"_

" _Don't touch me," Granger said as she wriggled her hands from his grip. He loosened his grip; and soon, her hands dug against his sides. "We are fucking, Malfoy. Catch up—" she snapped. Her head dipped to bite his throat. It vibrated against her mouth when he hitched a breath._

 _Draco placed his hands on the underside of her knees. She pressed herself toward him as if she needed to meet his hips. His calloused palms roamed over the curve of her waist, under her bra, before fumbling to unclasp its hook. Draco let his mouth bath her neck with his saliva—licking, biting, kissing—and her head dropped onto the door with a throaty groan. Her breath hitched in the caverns of her mouth. Draco swore under his breath as his pants tightened—_

" _Malfoy… The couch—"_

 _Without another minute, Draco carried her down the hall. Her head nuzzled against the curve of his neck, and he dropped her on the plush cushion. He hovered over her. Her legs bent on either side of him with her hands touch him everywhere. He did the same with her; his hands managing to finally remove her bra, his nose against her soaked dark hair, his arms caging her into a tight embrace. Granger's legs pushed him down, and next thing he knew, she had managed to straddle him._

 _Her hips bucked against his. Draco hissed in anger with his head falling back onto the couch. Her hands planted near his head, and later on, a finger traced the sharpness of his jaw down to his throat. "Tell me you want me, Malfoy," she mumbled—her lips hovering over his, sending him shivers as he felt her breath colliding with his. He hated that how his body reacted to her movements._

" _Isn't that obvious enough?" Draco growled, before arching his hips to meet her. She giggled at his eagerness. Her mouth twitched into a smirk, taunting him even more. Fucking Salazar, he was frustrated. His hands balled into fists as he tried his best to contain his heightened arousal._

 _He couldn't believe that this was actually happening to him._

 _This must be a dream—a fucking nightmare._

 _Granger moved from him. Her legs slid down to the ground. Her hands grazed upon his inner thighs. And when Draco locked eyes with her again, he saw a familiar look of mischievousness pass her brown irises. Slowly, her fingers trailed over his erection hidden underneath his trousers. Draco let out a loud, irritated groan, and finally, Granger lowered the zipper. His head fell against the couch once more. He couldn't look; but he felt her warm hand wrap around his throbbing member. Another throaty groan escape his mouth, and deepened once he felt the awaiting heat of her mouth slowing its way down his shaft._

 _Merlin's fucking beard._

 _Her tongue swept down his length. The head touching the depth of her throat that sent currents along his spine and shocked his nerve cells. He couldn't move; as though his entire body had been shut down. His brain dysfunctional as she sucked harder. Draco stared at the ceiling. His chest rising and falling as though trying to catch his breath. His heart was racing inside his ribcage—and he was uncertain how long he was going to last._

 _He snarled, "Granger, I'm gonna—"_

 _She sucked a few more times. Then on the edge of his orgasm, Granger stood—causing to Draco to gasp audibly. He panted. Looking again at her, she tore her dress off, and in one swift move, her knickers as well. He sighed in defeat while his eyes lingered over her naked form. She wasn't a girl anymore. Not the same girl back in Hogwarts. She was a grown woman. Her breasts rounded, her freckles darker over her shoulders to her collarbones to her chest, her curves defined, her legs full yet slim—and fuck, he couldn't help but groan at the sight of her._

 _Granger motioned toward him again. She placed both of her legs on his sides before leaning closer to him, with a whisper, "How close are you?"_

" _Close," he growled._

" _Tell me how close—"_

" _Fucking close," Draco hissed before throwing his hands over his head. He moved his hands to touch her hips but her hands were faster. She moved them away. Merlin's fucking balls. Granger smirked at how irritated he looked; and as she lowered, her warmth wrapped around his member tightly that it ached him to move. He was so close to losing it. He tugged her waist close with his arms before burying his face against the crook of her neck, her damp curls glued on her skin. "Move, Granger. I'm going to lose it—"_

 _And she did. She moved. Her hips ground against his, syncing his moments with hers, and Draco couldn't keep himself quiet. He prayed to all the gods that this was worthwhile; because if this was the last time he could hold her like this, he needed to remember every minute of it. She motioned up and down. Draco's eyes rolled back in pleasure—letting out noises that he had never heard of before, between groaning and moaning and grunting and growling; he was writhing in ecstasy._

 _Granger panted as she moved. Draco reached to her again, his hands falling on her sides, but she removed them again. He groaned. Fucking Merlin. "Merlin, Granger—let me… let me touch you," he grunted as she moved faster._

 _Granger fixed her eyes on him. She panted and said, "No. Not touching…"_

" _Why—"_

" _Because I said so," Granger hissed. Then she moved again. Draco groaned as he came close to his climax; his back arching as every nerve in his body went more active than before. "God, so fucking close, Malfoy," she gasped. She pressed her body against his, burying himself deeper inside her, and groaned as his member hit a spot inside her that gave her shivers._

 _With one last move, Draco threw his head back on the couch as he reached his climax. He felt his seed fill her, and Granger placed her hands on his shoulders. Both of them covered in sweat and saliva; but none of them seemed to care. She groaned in pleasure before hovering her lips over his ears again to whisper hotly, "Satisfied, Malfoy?"_

 _Draco growled. His mind came back to its senses and frowned at her, "What the fuck happened?" He didn't think to answer her question; but he didn't care. Draco found himself in an unfamiliar situation. He heard her laugh, still sitting on him. She pushed herself forward. Draco hissed at her movement as his dick twitched against her walls before glaring back at her._

" _I believe that we fucked, don't you think?"_

" _No, I get that. It's not fucking Arithmancy. I mean, this—"_

 _Granger raised an eyebrow. The grin plastered across her face had faded. Her expression turned sour. And Draco didn't know why. Then without a second thought, she stood from where she was. He sat back with his eyes following the woman who had been shagging him senseless a minute ago. He tried to piece together what just happened. He closed his eyes, every second replaying in his head. He didn't know what pushed Granger to fuck him out of the blue on her bloody couch all of the sudden—_

" _If we're going to continue this, I have conditions," Granger said. The atmosphere around her changed. Her walls were back up again; but Draco thought if they were even down in the first place. In her hand, she held a glass of whiskey and offered it to Draco, to which he reluctantly accepted. She was still naked, raw, and unmasked; but even so, Draco still couldn't read through her. It bothered him that he didn't know. He wanted to know. "No talking after sex. We're not friends. If we're shagging someplace else, I don't stay; so don't ask me to stay. No touching. We can kiss anywhere except the mouth. And lastly, this is just sex. Nothing more than what it is…"_

 _Draco blinked at her words. He watched her gather the rest of her discarded clothes before walking toward her bedroom. Draco was left sitting on the couch, his chest still heaving, thinking to himself in an attempt to understand this. Later on, he saw Granger halt as she reached the hall before facing him with a sly smirk, "You're not coming?"_

" _Coming to?"_

" _Shower, of course," Granger said, and continued her walk to her bedroom._

 _Draco groaned. His head dropped back again. As heat climbed under his skin once more, Draco set his drink on the coffee table and hurried to join Granger to shower, leaving the glass untouched and forgotten._

Draco's reveries were interrupted at the sound of a soft rapping against his office door. Images of Granger dissolved as his head raised toward the entrance, waiting. But in the back of his mind, he already knew who disturbed him from his thoughts—it was his mother. Draco lifted his wand and unlatched the door with a spell. Not long, Narcissa Malfoy showed herself in with a calm look on her face.

"Yes, Mother?" Draco asked, turning his attention back to his desk.

"Just seeing how you are. You haven't left this room in four hours," Narcissa said. She stood in the middle of his office. Before the war, this office belonged to Lucius. Lucius spent most of his days here, working tirelessly, while Narcissa spent her days in the garden. Draco couldn't help but notice that his mother felt rather uncomfortable standing in the middle of what was once his father's study.

Draco sniggered quietly, saying, "We had breakfast this morning, Mother. I'm fine."

His hands moved across the desk, searching for some files, pretending to be occupied. For a few times, he took short glances at his mother. Narcissa remained stiff in where she stood, hands clasped in front of her pencil skirt, and her chin raised high. Even if she had also been tortured by the war, Draco still found his mother's composure unnerving. He didn't know how she managed to sleep at peace at night when Draco woke from his nightmares sweating. There were things he had wished he hadn't seen during the war, things that he would rather forget, but these things were also reminders of his failures.

To remind him of his place in this world.

He was, after all, a Death Eater. No amount of history would erase that.

"You seemed in a daze, my love," Narcissa remarked affectionately. She eyed her son with great concern; and as Draco looked up, he knew that he couldn't deny her observation. It was the truth. He was in a daze. His thoughts earlier made him even more confused than he was when he left Granger's flat, and it irritated him.

"Is that the reason for your visit? To ask me about my thoughts?"

Narcissa let out a defeated sigh. She was his mother; but regardless, Draco still hid things from her. He didn't tell her about his nightmares. He didn't tell her that his aunt's psychotic laughter still sent shivers to his spine. He didn't tell that those children he tortured, their eyes looked at him like he was the vilest creature in the world. Draco knew that his mother would understand; but Draco didn't need understanding.

He needed to forget.

"Partly," Narcissa said. "Besides, Blaise is downstairs. Would you like me to send him here?"

Draco nodded. He didn't look up.

"And perhaps, some tea?"

Draco raised his head to his mother. His eyes narrowed as he stared at her, before sighing, "No, Mother. I rather have the shelf of liquor stocked here. No need for tea." Merlin, what would he need to say to get his mother off his back?

"I'd insist that you don't drink something strong this wonderful afternoon. It's too early for that, Draco," Narcissa huffed—indirectly criticizing Draco's vices. She despised Draco's smoking and his drinking habits in the middle of the afternoon; but Draco's mind only achieved peace when he had either of those. Her eyebrow arched, and her voice edged. "I'll ask Kori to bring some wine," his mother insisted before turning her heel to leave without waiting for Draco's response.

Draco watched as his mother leave the office. The sound of the door hitting the doorframe echoed in his ears, and he knew that his sarcasm vexed his mother—however, he didn't care. He and his mother's relationship was fine; but personal matters weren't as much a common topic between the two of them. Draco would tolerate talking about gossip and small talks. But if his mother insisted that he talk about his strugglers, he never could.

He didn't doubt that his mother loved him. He knew deeply that his mother cared for him. Narcissa risked herself getting caught by the Dark Lord when she lied about Harry Potter being dead, and everybody knew that she did that for her beloved son, but Narcissa's expression of love toward Draco only extends to some limit. Draco knew that his mother wasn't vocal to how she felt about things, and whenever his mother try to reconnect, he found it unusual and uncomfortable to remain in that situation that he always hides back in his hardened-shell because situations as such were yet to be explored.

And he wasn't ready for such exploration.

Kori apparated into Draco's office with the wine. His hands held a silver tray, an uncapped bottle of white wine and two wineglasses atop, and the house-elf placed it on Draco's desk next to a pile of paper works. After the house-elf made sure that Draco didn't need anything else, he disapparated into thin air; leaving Draco alone with his own thoughts for a short minute.

He sat back down on his office chair, leaned his head against it, and rested his eyes. His eyelids closed, his hands interlocked in front of him, and he breathed in peace. Before his mind could wander back into what his thoughts were before his mother had interrupted, the office door opened—hinges creaking and a new sense of air coming in. Draco cracked an eye, seeing his friend Blaise Zabini walking in. He wore his usual business suit with one of his hands buried inside his pocket and a smug grin on his face, causing Draco to reflexively roll his eyes.

Blaise stepped into Draco's office and slumped on one of his plush couches. Draco sighed, leaning forward, and asked, "What are you smirking about, Zabini?"

Draco moved from his desk. He poured wine on each of the glasses brought by the house-elf and handed one to Blaise. Of course, Blaise accepted it and lifted the rim close to his nose—smelling the wine. "Nothing much, Draco. Just that you never talked about your dinner with Granger," Blaise pried and finally took an amount of wine in his mouth.

Draco felt a lump in his throat. It grew and got stuck down his neck like a stone. He tried to figure out what game Blaise was playing; but Blaise could only show a few smiles at him. And it annoyed Draco. He let out a sigh, thinking of words to say to Blaise.

"What is there to talk about? It was dinner," Draco lied—shrugging as he took his first sip. It was sour, and he cursed his mother for this bloody drink. He needed something stronger. Then he thought about Blaise's inquiry, and knew in himself that it wasn't just a dinner. Even to Draco, he found it difficult to determine the events of that night. He couldn't piece it together, even if all the pieces were laid out in front him, he still couldn't see the big picture. He meant to ask Granger; but Merlin, she wasn't talking.

"Draco, you never came to tell me about Potter and Weasley! I thought we were mates," Blaise said, reclining on his chair. Both his hands intertwined behind his head. The grin carved across his face grew wider—reaching ear to ear. Draco couldn't help himself but groan, taking every ounce of energy in himself from wiping that smirk off his best friend's face.

"How did you know? Did Granger tell you?"

"Of course not," Blaise laughed. He raised his glass and continued, "For a short time I've known Granger, she doesn't talk about things like that. I heard bits and pieces from Potter, Weasley, and the Weasley girl. They were discussing it at quite a loud volume. Can't help but eavesdrop at the sound of Granger's name, and of course, yours too."

"I had little participation in that interrogation. Granger handled it all too well."

Draco remembered her eyes when she came back from her short trip to the restroom. Bloodshot and swollen as if she cried herself for hours. Her muscles trembling under his hands as he undressed her that evening. He saw a glimpse of who this Granger was for a mere second and he saw that her walls were cracking; but he still couldn't read her. He couldn't see her enough. Breakage visible around her brown eyes, and even if there were cracks already, she was still hiding behind them.

What was she hiding from?

Blaise interrupted his thoughts, "Really? That would've been a good night—"

"It was," Draco agreed. He twirled the drink inside his glass before setting it over his desk. He took out a cigarette and lit it. Smoke entered his lungs, soothing his nerves down, while Blaise remained smiling like an idiot. "But, Potter and Weasley prove to be still a sight for sore eyes. Granger must've been exhausted with their moronic tendencies that she left them then," he added—and for a moment, he thought he saw a look in Blaise's eyes, a passing glance, an unfamiliar shift in his mood, and Blaise's smile dissolved into a serious look. Draco wondered what went on in Blaise's head, but he remained quiet.

Blaise turned his face away before asking, "What happened after that?"

"I took Granger home. Then I…" Draco trailed off as he thought about what he was going to say. Was he actually going to admit that he shagged Granger? Blaise was his best mate. Their friendship went way back before Hogwarts, and he trusted Blaise. But somehow as his mind made up to tell the truth, his chest locking and the air in his lungs seemed insufficient for him to breathe; before decided to himself that he wasn't ready to tell him. "…I went home," he finished, finding his voice again and dousing his dried tongue with another sip of his wine. The taste of smoke and alcohol mixing in his mouth, and it tasted the same as Granger's skin.

It was addictive.

Blaise watched him. Perhaps he had his suspicions, or perhaps he could read through Draco's words and actions; however, Blaise never voiced them anyway. Draco valued personal space, and he knew that Blaise respected it. It wasn't an ideal trait of Draco to open up and express his emotions; in fact, that was never an option. Blaise allowed Draco to tell him whatever he wanted whenever he wanted, because sometimes, telling something only made things more complicated.

Like this situation.

Perhaps Draco wasn't so different from Granger. There might be more similarities to them than they admitted. Both of them hiding, damaged, and searching for their missing pieces; and perhaps to Draco, he still wasn't clear as to what Granger was hiding from, but he knew that he hid from the truth.

He grimaced at the thought.

Draco finished the cigarette, crushing the butt against the glass ashtray, before taking the seat opposite to Blaise. For a moment, both of them fell into silence. The soundlessness drowned the two of them into an awkward engagement; sitting across from each other, but not talking. There were questions that plagued Draco since that evening, or perhaps even before that, and he couldn't get the words out of lips. His throat dry, his tongue sewn to the ceiling of his mouth, his teeth clenching. Draco glanced at Blaise as his friend glanced around the room. Then Draco asked, "What do you know of Daphne Greengrass?"

Blaise snapped his head, eyes wide. A lighter shade of brown against the sunlight beaming through one of the windows. Neither was he smiling nor pouting. Draco recognized a look in his friend's face—doubt. But, doubt about what? What did Blaise know? There were too many questions, yet so few answers. Blaise raised a brow and pressed his hand tight around the glass, before inquiring, "Granger told you about Daphne?"

"She mentioned the name. Not extensively, though."

He recalled Granger's words. She knew Daphne; and perhaps she didn't consider them friends, but close enough to even bring her to dinner over at _Les Deux Salons_. How, he didn't know. Daphne was one of the few purebloods who were raised to think that _mudbloods_ were beneath them. Her younger sister, Astoria, even showed disdain for the likes of Granger, which annoyed Draco to no end. Despite this, Draco thought that Daphne was quite better than his younger sister after all. At least, he could engage in a proper conversation with Daphne compared to Astoria.

"That would be best," Blaise remarked. He finished his drink and place the glass on a nearby desk before continuing, "She doesn't talk anything personal, mind you. Luna doesn't even tell me anything. But from what I can tell you, Luna doesn't know much either. I don't even know what had happened three months ago—"

Draco raise a brow. His attention was captured at the Blaise's words— _three months ago_.

"Three months ago?"

Realizing that he slipped, Blaise closed his mouth for a moment. His lips pressed into a thin line, and his eyes looking away again. He knew that he had said more than what he should have. He probably shouldn't have said anything at all; and after a second of silence, he heard Blaise demand, "What is it to you, anyway? Like you said, you weren't friends."

Fuck. What was it to him, anyway? Draco echoed Blaise's question in his head for a minute. He knew that he and Granger weren't friends. Merlin, no. She hated that word; and even Draco never would've imagined to be friends with Granger. But that was a different Granger. He looked at her, and he couldn't recognize her. Not her hair, not her face, not her words, not even her eyes—because everything about her seemed to have been damaged.

But what damaged her? What happened to her?

To answer Blaise's question, he didn't know. He didn't know why it mattered. Why _she_ mattered. Deeply, Draco's chest rumbled at the thought of Granger. This woman was an enigma; a broken puzzle; an unread book; a fucking mystery—and for whatever unknown reason, Draco itched to know what did this to her. It bothered him, and he couldn't get her out of his _damn_ head. He attempted to flush her out of his system; but she was already deep under his skin. She used to be unbreakable and feisty; but when he saw her, she was sitting in a puddle of her own wreckage.

"Curiosity," Draco said, flatly. "So, are you going to tell me anything?"

"I can't, Draco—"

"Why not?"

"Because it isn't my secret to tell," Blaise snapped. Draco rested his back against the couch, sighing, and glanced at his friend. Blaise watched him closely. "Blast it, Draco. Even if I knew anything, I wasn't about to tell you, anyway."

Draco breathed. He placed his elbow on his seat before propping his chin over his fingers, gently caressing the thin stubble growing around his jawline. He poured the last of his wine and let the drink linger longer in his mouth for a while, allowing him to think, and he gazed at Blaise. Both men shared a look—one was different from the other; and Blaise raised both of his eyebrows as if he realized something.

Frowning, Draco asked, "What?"

"Nothing," Blaise replied, a close smile curved around his lips. He rose off his seat and ran a hand down to straighten his business suit. "I should go. I'm taking Luna for dinner tonight. See you tomorrow, mate."

Draco watched his friend turn and head toward the door. After a short stride, Blaise glanced back at Draco with that thin smile on his face growing before he exited the premise. The door thudded after it shut, and once silence crept around the room, Draco could hear nothing other than his breathing and his thoughts.

* * *

 _A/N: I'm back. This chapter was rather... rushed. I've been itching to post a new chapter, but I've been stuck. I don't particularly know how I feel about this chapter, but I promise that the next few ones will be reveal more about some things. Apologies for the errors. Gratitude for the patience and support. The previous reviews were amazing, and please keep them coming. I appreciate all of them very much. Thank you. Again, I own nothing. All characters and references belong to J.K. Rowling. 'Til next time!_


	8. Chapter Six

**Chapter Six**

 **DESOLATED HOPES**

 _November 7, 2001_

She sighed.

How long had she been sitting here? Minutes? Hours? She wasn't sure. Time dragged her to her thoughts, trapping her in a time-looped scenario, in which whenever she realized where she was, she still sat in front of the bar as if she hadn't left at all. But she hadn't left. She sat, drifting more and more into her reveries, with a full glass of untouched Firewhiskey.

The Leaky Cauldron was nearly empty. There were some customers lounging about; but Hermione didn't consider them as company. Every clink of glasses and screeching of chairs echoed all over the dingy pub, because it was too quiet. It was a little after two o'clock. Too late for her, but too early for a drink. Elbows propped, Hermione leaned closer as her hand held that half-lit cigarette near her ears. The trail of smoke floated under her nose. She ticked the dying embers on the ashtray, watching as they crumble into tinier bits of ashes. She felt a heaviness on her back. She wasn't sure what it was; but it wasn't unfamiliar.

Her mouth was dry. Her lips were chapped. Her eyes were lost. But her mind—Merlin, her mind didn't seem to settle on one thought. She jumped from one to the other. What was she drinking for, anyway? She snort at the thought. No, she didn't need a reason to drink. She just did. It usually settled her nerves down, but three shots of Firewhiskey clearly wasn't enough.

One of her thoughts was her early trip to Hampshire this morning. She remembered sitting in silence with a few strangers in her train compartment from Waterloo station to her destination for about an hour and a half. At her arrival, she took the bus that led to the village where she grew up. It was her home; at least, it used to be. She hadn't lived in it for almost ten years. It was just a house where she stayed during summer breaks, Christmas, Easter back when she still studied in Hogwarts; and now, it was just a house where she visited her mother.

It felt uncomfortable, sitting on that train. Dreading to finish the ride. Dreading to get to her house. Dreading to finish lunch. Dreading for this day to end. But Hermione reminded herself that it wasn't over yet. There were at least less than ten hours until that happened. She didn't mean to count, but there wasn't exactly much to do while she sat in front of that bar, alone. When she reached her mother's home, Hermione saw herself standing in an all-too familiar place uneasily. She knew that place, like the back of her hand, and even if it didn't change much, she still felt as if she had entered a strange territory.

The Granger house was almost the same. Except that the plants outside were uncared for, and that her old bedroom was remolded to be an office. Her parents never really needed an office since both of them spent most of their days in their clinic; but now that her mother had decided to take up a teaching position in the local community college, it was logical to have an office. The living room was became more spacious without Hermione's books lying around or her father's newspapers piled on the coffee table, the kitchen still small and neat, and the dining room looked as if it hadn't been used in a while. Hermione didn't think that her mother would've been in the mood to eat all by herself in the dining room; so she exhaled deeply. She remembered slipping into the backyard earlier and saw what had been her sanctuary during her stay here. Before her father's passing, she allowed herself to sit on the other side, with an ashtray full of burnt cigarettes and a silver flask of liquor, watching the sun rise and set. Sleep was such a rare luxury at the time; because every time she closed her eyes, her nightmares were more real than anything she has touched.

Her mother, Helena Granger, made her special seafood pasta. It was perhaps the only thing Hermione had been looking forward to this day. As soon as Hermione arrived, the smell of pasta sauce filled the air, and Hermione's lungs, that her intestines began to grind. Hermione eyed her mother at the sound of her footsteps coming from the kitchen, and realized that it must've been a long while since they have seen each other. Her mother had aged awfully fast. Her dark brown hair had turned into streaks of grey, stretched and thin, her wrinkles multiplied, and her freckles larger. Even her eyes had changed, Hermione had thought earlier.

She hadn't seen her mother since the funeral. That was last year. They kept in touch through a few phone calls and letters; but none of them extended an offer to see each other. Except this time. She didn't know what made her mother invite her over for lunch, but Hermione knew that it was bound to happen sooner or later. Both of them had been dancing around reality, pretending that the life they both lived was nothing but a dream, and Hermione didn't know how she felt of it.

No one really understood what they went through. Her mother loved her father, and Hermione had never really believed in all that fairytale crap, but seeing her parents together was hopeful. The two of them being away from each other was painful to watch. The distance between life and death. Even if the cemetery was just a few kilometers from their village, her mother still couldn't build the courage to go there. Hermione knew how it felt to be so alive, yet so close to death. She was hanging on a cliff, her fingernails dragging in the dirt, hoping that she has enough strength to hold on a little longer but also hoping that she would slip off quickly.

Months have passed, and Hermione knew that the wounds left by her father's passing was still open, still fresh, still bleeding. Her mother smiled, but it was an empty one. Hermione spent two hours there. Sitting from across each other, Hermione listened to her mother—in between her cigarette puffs and drinking—talk; and even if she didn't care half of what her mother had been talking about, she pretended to. She was sure that her father would've liked it if she at least tried to care.

Her mother had asked her, " _Are you dating anyone?_ "

Hermione couldn't help but scoff. Her mother wasn't nosey; but since her father's death, her mother had tried to reconnect with Hermione. It was—to put mildly—making up for lost time. She had told them of her relationship with Ron before, but left out the part why she left him. Her words were, " _It didn't work_ ," and yet her father gave her a wary look. Hermione wasn't sure if her mother knew, but her father certainly knew that there was something that bothered her.

Huffing, Hermione had told her mother, " _No. Not since Ron…_ "

It wasn't a lie. But it wasn't the truth either. She hadn't been dating, but she _had_ been _involved_ with some men. Well, rather intimately. She let men—both Muggles and Wizards—get a taste of her. There were times that she didn't see them again; but there were also times that she went on _dates_ with them. Dates without food and conversation. Dates that revolved shagging around in wherever the nearest secluded place there was. Hermione knew that she wasn't about to tell her mother about all those experiences because it wasn't something that one brings up in a casual conversation. Her mother reacted terribly, gasping and pressing Hermione about why she hadn't been dating; and all Hermione did was shrug.

Even Luna had been watching her closely. She knew why, and she didn't need to ask. Their concern was something that Hermione could care less because she didn't need it. It limited her; and Hermione felt trapped in a cage. So, she stayed out late most nights. Hours spent in different bars with a cigarette hanging on her chapped red lips and a drink, waiting and waiting, until somebody took her for a quick shag. She didn't mind doing it anywhere—a bathroom cubicle, the backseat of someone's car, a closet, in the back alley, in the hall… No, she didn't care; not as long as someone's dick was ramming her until she couldn't walk straight.

Most men didn't know her. It was easier to pick men in the Muggle world, not fully knowing who she was and not entirely caring; a sense of anonymity behind her dark mascara, straight hair, short dress, and high heels, she wasn't Hermione Granger. She wasn't the same bushy haired girl with a smartarse attitude. She was someone else, could be anyone, someone that nobody recognized. She was a stranger in a vast place, and she was free.

For some reason, she remembered Malfoy. His kisses were still planted all over her skin, wet and desperate; and even if she bedded men after him, the feeling of his warm hands lingered a little longer. Not in the way that she had been held three years ago; but at that time, she felt… something else. A feeling that was alien to her, something she couldn't recognize. Something she hadn't felt before. He had wanted to touch her, and she heard it from the sounds eliciting out of his throat; but she couldn't let him. She never let anyone touch her that way, in any way that she felt unsafe and unsure, and Malfoy almost convinced her to let him. But of course, her reservation was stronger than her sensations.

She couldn't let him in. Not now.

She didn't know what made her think of him. It wasn't as if she had cared before if the men she slept with had thought of her after; but with Malfoy, it was almost different. She wasn't sure what was different but it was new. She wondered what he thought of that night because for the last few weeks, the soft touch of his lips on the curve of her neck, her back, her chin, anywhere except her lips, had been haunting her. She wanted to feel him again…

Snapping out of her reveries, Hermione realized that her mother had kept on talking about her dating. Her relationship with her mother was an odd one. Her mother had always been there, watching; while her father had been the one who did most of the talking. Her mother saw things, odd things, but never did she ever voice her thoughts to Hermione. Hermione smoked, drunk, and spoke in little words in front of her mother, but her mother only acted as if she hadn't seen anything. To her mother, she was still the eleven-year-old Hermione with a ridiculous bushy hair and bright smile on her face, innocent and untainted; as if she was still the same.

As if nothing had changed.

But Hermione knew that everything had changed. So much.

When she told her mother, off-handedly, that she visited her father's grave on his birthday, Hermione saw a flicker in her mother's eyes. There was silence; but that silence was anything but light. It buzzed annoyingly in her ears, waiting and slowly dragging time. Hermione didn't expect her mother to say something about that, but she hoped. And even if her hopes were desolated ones, she still hoped. It was ridiculous to hope something good out of a bad situation, but perhaps what used to be her optimism was still hiding somewhere in there.

Her mother hadn't visited the cemetery. Not even on birthdays or anniversaries. Her mother tried her best to keep herself occupied with her teaching job and seminars and special dental appointments; but never allowed herself to have a long time to be still. Because being still, Hermione knew, meant that she would've more time to think.

To remember.

To hope for more.

And neither of them wanted to do that. If only Hermione could _obliviate_ herself, it would have been a lot easier. But at some point, remembering reminded her that she changed for a reason. She wasn't only referring to her father's death, but everything else that turned her life upside down. For a long time, she tried to convince herself that she didn't have a choice; but at the back of her mind, questions rose and fed her doubts even more. Didn't she really have other options except to leave? Or did she choose this path because it was the easy way out? Did running help her forget, even a little, or did she only pretend that it did? Merlin, her head was flooded with thoughts, and Hermione could barely swim.

"Water?" Lifting her head, Hermione's eyes landed on a familiar blonde woman. Her straight hair pulled into a tie, and there was an unmistakable smile bending her pink lips. Going in and out of the Leaky Cauldron whenever she passed between Muggle London to Diagon Alley, she sometimes caught a glimpse—a mere look, a short glance—over Hannah Abbott wiping glasses or pouring drinks or laughing over something her customers said; but never did they exchange words.

Not since the war. Not since that night.

Hermione shook her head, refusing the offer. Her fingers played with the side of her glass, tapping lightly, and the drink inside swayed. The cigarette in her other hand had been long forgotten. Smoke filled her lungs once more, and she remembered how it felt to exhale in relief. Her chest was lighter than it had been before, and the thorn that was embedded in the tight corner of her ribcage had been plucked.

Her eyes settled on the blonde. Hannah Abbott now looked older than the last time Hermione saw her at the victory celebration. Her body shifted into a more mature figure, her face beaming with light, and Hermione noticed a gold ring on Hannah's hand. Hannah must've noticed where Hermione's eyes were when she followed them, seeing what she was looking at, before chuckling, "Been a long time, hasn't it? I have only been married to Neville for a year and a half, and it already feels like forever…"

Hermione recalled seeing it in the papers. Their wedding was simple, and the invited guests were only of family and friends. Their marriage was quite a shock to everyone since neither of them particularly talked about it in public.

She looked at Hannah, "Well, how's that working out for you?"

Hannah smiled, shrugging. She continued wiping the glasses and said, "It's wonderful, really. I can't have married a better man. Of course, his time's mostly devoted to his classes at Hogwarts, and I miss him, but the pub keeps me distracted…"

Neville taught Herbology in Hogwarts. He was immediately offered a position after the war for he showed great interest in that subject. Harry and Ron were known to be as few of the best Aurors in the Ministry. Ginny played for the Holyhead Harpies. Luna wrote for the Quibbler. And even if Hermione excelled in almost everything except Divination, all her hard work was now worth nothing. She worked at Gringotts in front of a small desk, doing paper works, but she knew that it was the best place to hide. So she hid. She hid from everyone while they enjoyed being famous and recognized.

She tried to follow through how her life had drastically fallen apart. She wanted to be an Auror too; but after that night, she knew that being one meant that she would see Harry and Ron. She would be exposed, and it was the last thing she needed. Perhaps it was her choice, that her life had crumbled into rubble, but given another chance to change, she would've done the same thing. The same mistakes, the same decisions, the same failures—because she couldn't let anyone know. It was her secret. It was her body. It was her shame; and she needed to suffer alone.

Hermione ticked her cigarette and took her last puff before crushing its burning end on the ashtray. Then, she took small sips from her drink. The corner of lips twitched before setting the empty glass on the counter and asked Hannah to pour her some more. Hannah stopped what she was doing before she filled Hermione's glass again, the drink almost spilling as it reached the rim.

Hannah commented, "That must be some problem you have, drinking like that in this early hour. Would you like to talk about it?"

Hermione eyed the other woman. What gave it away that she wanted to talk about it? Merlin, no. It would be a disaster. Catastrophe, and the last thing either of them needed was an explosion. The fire inside Hermione's throat, ignited by the Firewhiskey that recently doused her mouth, raged and she feared that she might lose control all over again.

"No," Hermione said, flatly.

"Well, that's all right. I'm just the bar lady, anyway," Hannah smirked, continuing to wipe the counter with her dry rag.

Hermione closed her eyes. She allowed the darkness consume her for a minute while her hearing focused on everything else that made a noise around her. Her breathing slowed and deepened as her chest became tighter, her muscles flexing involuntarily, and for whatever reason, she wasn't sure.

What was she doing here, anyway? For three years, she avoided contact with any of her former colleagues. She watched in the shadows while everyone she used to love lived their lives, and hers wasted into nothing but vices. She and Hannah were never friends. Sure, they knew each other by name and all the basic crap but nothing more. But why did she feel as if Hannah would drag her back into the place where she'd been hiding from all these years?

She searched her mind for something, an answer as to what made her come here to drink. She could have done this in any Muggle pub in London. She could've sat in her own bathtub, undressed and raw, with a whole bottle of Firewhiskey to herself. She didn't need to come here. But why was she here? Why did she need to come here?

Before she could answer her own questions, a loud tinkle disrupted the silence that was flooding the pub. Two women walked in, and the sound of their laughter made Hermione's skin crawl. The hair on the back of her neck rose. She knew that laughter. That voice. Her fingers that were wrapped around her glass tightened; what was _she_ doing here? She didn't need to look back to see who it was. She couldn't be mistaken. She knew that… woman.

Hermione shifted her head a little to her right, and she saw. A flash of red hair, and a flash of memory. Her jaw clenched as Hermione remained seated, but her backside started to ache. She didn't need to look back. She recognized her. She would know her anywhere. How could she not? She shared the same room with this particular woman for almost seven years. It was impossible for her to forget.

It was Ginny Weasley. No, Potter—Ginny _Potter_. She married Harry last September, remember?

Her arm was linked to Parvati Patil's as they entered. Hermione paid no attention to Parvati. They weren't friends, not even before she left; but Ginny—she had been one of Hermione's best friends. But of course, nothing ever stayed the same.

Old memories started to resurface. Like someone plunged her deep under the ocean, sucking out all of the air in her body, and no matter how much she struggled, she was sinking. Drowning. Dying. She held the glass in her hand until her knuckles turned white. Few drops spilled on the skin, but she didn't care. Her fingers were frigid and stiff that she feared it might shatter.

Their voices echoed in her head. Whispering, until it became loud enough to overcome her senses. Ron's voice had said, as if he suddenly walked right into the pub, " _Why are you leaving?_ _Why do you have to leave? Please, 'Mione, talk to us… I thought we had plans. We made plans, remember?"_ She closed her eyes; she needed to shut them out. Not now. Not here. But soon, Harry's words followed her, reliving that moment, and she heard: _"You were fine last night, Hermione. What's wrong? We're your best friends. You can talk to us, you know that…"_

Her hands itched. In reality, she gripped the small glass; but in her mind, she was back there. She shut her luggage and locked it tight after throwing her stuff before she could turn back. She couldn't stay there. She needed to leave. The luggage was heavy. It contained of all of her clothes, her books, and other personal belongings because she couldn't leave something behind. It would give them a reason to look for her and then they would bombard her with more questions, and she wasn't going to let it happen. Ginny had come into their dormitory after Harry announced that Hermione was leaving. Ginny had asked the same questions, but Hermione didn't have an answer. At least, something that she could tell them. No, they weren't ready for the truth, and Hermione wasn't ready to say it.

" _Please, Hermione. Talk to us. Whatever it is, we're going to help—_ "

Hermione dragged her suitcase down the stairs while her friends staggered to follow her. She would've placed a charm that would lighten the weight, but her thoughts were too clouded. Was this the right decision? Did she really need to leave?

" _Did we do something wrong? Did someone hurt you? Where are you going—_ "

She wished. She wished that they had done something wrong. It would've been easier to leave if they had. But no, they had been nothing but good to her. But hearing them plead, she fought back the tears that were brimming on the edge of her eyes.

" _Tell us, love…_ "

Ron's endearing words made Hermione's knees weak. She almost gave up. She almost dropped the suitcase and grabbed him in a tight embrace. She loved him, she loved him with everything she had, but would he still love her after this?

" _You can't leave now!_ "

Ron and Harry did their best to keep her from leaving. They said their words, and every time they tried to touch her, Hermione flinched. She almost broke. She almost cracked. But not in front of them, she knew that. Ginny cried. Ron's face flushed in anger, a surge of betrayal rushing under his skin. Harry threw his hands through his unruly hair when even he couldn't stop Hermione from departing. Hermione remember how Harry's fingers tried to grab the sleeve of her shirt, a pleading touch, a thug, a last attempt to make her stay—but no, Hermione had to go.

She didn't cry. She couldn't. Too weak, too obvious. The tears were once edging around her eyes had dried along with that little hope in her heart. What she did was Disapparate to the very last place she wanted to be.

Away from them.

And as Hermione brought herself back to the present, she noticed that Ginny looked almost the same. Her red luscious locks still flowed across her back, loose strands waved in the air while she walked, and her face slightly flushed from the heat outside. A wide grin spread across her face, and Hermione tried not to notice. It slowed—each movement, each laughter buzzing like a disrupted cable noise, each breath deep and long. Suddenly, she felt claustrophobic, and the pub seemed to be getting smaller and smaller.

"Hey, Hannah," Ginny greeted as she reached bar. Hannah, who seemed to be pleased see the two women, flashed a welcoming smile.

Hermione finished her drink. The liquid heated her chest as it passed her throat. She rose her glass to the bar lady and asked for another while taking another cigarette to smoke. Her hands had begun to tremble as she dragged the stick out of its pack, barely managing to light its end, and once she did, she pressed it between her dried lips to inhale as much smoke as her lungs could hold.

She counted the seconds ticking. One, two, three, four. It rang in her head like an old grandfather clock. Her drink came, and her cigarette was done. She needed more. Merlin, how much more did she need? Her body tingled with electricity. It coursed through her spine, down to the little spots at the base of her back, between her legs, wrapping at her thighs like grapevines, and then to the ends of her toes. Five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven… She continued to count, waiting.

Waiting for what?

"Is that Hermione Granger?" There. That was what she was waiting for. It was an inevitability, a certainty that she had been dreading for, for the past five minutes since they walked in. It didn't matter who noticed; she had been noticed, that was what mattered. Hermione didn't raise her head in acknowledgement. She didn't look back. She didn't smile. She didn't nod. She pretended that she hadn't heard. She pretended as if she was still there, sitting and unseen.

Hannah eyed Hermione. An apologetic look passed by unnoticed by Hermione before Hannah turned to Parvati, nodding. Hermione heard a gasp, then a squeal, then a seat screeching its feet against the ground. Ignoring the sounds, she took her drink and gulped half down her system. She needed enough alcohol to deal with whatever was going to happen.

Tilting her head to the right, she watched as Parvati rose. She pushed the seat back before taking fast strides toward Hermione, closing the short distance. Her heels stomped loudly. The sound made Hermione's ears bleed, and she sighed. It was heavy as if her breath came with dust. As Parvati reached her, Hermione felt her shoulders stiffen, guarded as if she prepared for battle. This scenario was expected, and the only thing that wasn't was the end. Hermione wasn't sure about what was going to happen in the end. Was she going to walk out of her unscathed? Or would she be crawling and dragging herself on the floor the minute she faced the inevitable?

Parvati beamed, an arm stretched—waving; and Hermione heard, "Hi, Hermione! Oh Merlin, we didn't see you there! You look absolutely different, and wonderful, of course—"

Bullshit. Her hair smelled like smoke. Her lips were a shade darker, her lipstick chapped, and the pair of dark circles under Hermione's eyes were getting heavier; and for Godric's sake, she looked dead. She felt it in herself as if she was an empty shell walking around. Just existing; but not entirely living. Well, at least if death did come knocking right now, she would be ready.

Hermione arched a brow. She caught a glimpse of Ginny—who was watching them from afar. Her hands were clasped on top of the counter. Her lips pursed into a thin line. Her eyes were searching for answers; perhaps to the same questions that Hermione had been trying to answer for the last three years. As Parvati continued to ramble, Hermione continued to smoke, and each breath, she saw Ginny looking at her as if she didn't know recognize Hermione.

Internally, Hermione laughed. Even she didn't know who she was.

"Would you like to join us for a drink?" Parvati asked, a thumb pushed behind her to point at Ginny. "I'm sure Ginny would thrilled. I mean, we haven't talked to you in years. Plus, we're here to celebrate Ginny's pregnancy. She's two weeks pregnant, you see; and we're here to drink. But she's having lemonade since because she can't have any alcohol—"

Something started ringing in Hermione's ears. Her heart hammered against her torso, her blood pumping faster, and the rest of her body frozen. Parvati didn't stop talking. Hannah smiled. Ginny bowed her head, hiding her face under the curtain of her red hair. Hermione saw Parvati's mouth moving, still talking, but she couldn't hear a sound except for that buzzing in her ears. It was soft at first, but as everything around her slowed, the noise loudened—almost piercing through her eardrums, breaking through, and a hundred needles pricking at the tip of her fingers. Her chest continued to rise and fall, deep and long and heavy, as her mind reeled through what was happening.

Then it came. She was holding that white stick with two blue stripes again. She was sitting in her toilet, her legs spread slightly, and her back heavier than usual. She felt tears, tasted them as they slid on the corner of her trembling mouth. She felt a cramping in the pit of her abdomen—like something was moving; and she felt drowning. Her vision blurred. Her muscles flexed. Her head pounded. Her fingers tightened. She knew what was happening, and cursed as her body betrayed her; but she was failing.

Not now. She couldn't do this right now—

Parvati called, "Hermione, are you alright?"

Shaking her head, she pressed her lips into a thin line. It resembled a smile, but barely. Her body tensed, but her face looked calm. She needed to look calm. Not now, not now, not now. Two words repeating in her head like a mantra. Then she said, "That is wonderful news, Parvati. Send Ginny my congratulations." She tasted blood in her mouth. How could she say that?

After a while, the noise continued buzzing in the back of her mind as though bees built their hive somewhere in there. Her pieces started breaking again, clattering at her feet, and she had to pull herself together again. She slowed her breathing; but her stomach hurt with how tight it knotted.

"Are you sure you're alright? You're quite pale, Hermione," Parvati asked, as she pressed a hand on Hermione's back. Then Hermione flinched at Parvati's touch, hissing as if she had been burned. "Oh, I'm sorry—"

"It's fine. I must go," Hermione said, quickly. She placed a few Sickles and Galleons on the counter for her drink before rising. She felt eyes watching her. Ginny's, Hannah's, Parvati's. She didn't look back again. She brushed past Parvati and half-dragged herself to the loo. It didn't take long for her to reach the bathroom sink, and when she did, she saw her eyes at the mirror. Sunken, darker, and unfocused. She looked everywhere; but she couldn't see anything that mattered. Her vision swirled further—what was happening?

She caved to the sink. Vomit splayed down the drain as it came out of Hermione's mouth. She tasted an odd mixture of digested pasta, Firewhiskey, and bile. Coughing, she spewed more until her stomach became stable. She turned on the faucet to wash off the dirt that stained the white porcelain sink. Hermione looked at her own reflection. She felt hatred, anger, shame; and for the first time in a long time, it hurt.

It affected her. Why did it affect her?

Tears formed and slid across her face. It went down her cheeks, her neck, her chest; but she didn't wipe it off. She didn't stop them. She couldn't fight them back any longer, even if she tried. And she was too exhausted to keep fighting them. There wasn't an ounce of strength left in her to fight anymore. Her reflection in the mirror showed a girl, _the girl_ she was three years ago, shattered and empty and lonely. She hadn't cried in a long time; not like this. She had been holding herself together for so long, in attempts to prove that she can make it, but now, she failed.

She failed herself.

She sobbed as tears ran down on all sides of her face. Her chest heaved, trying to catch her breath, but kept failing with how hard she was crying. For a quite a time, she thought that she had nothing left to cry for; but here she was, bent over the sink, panting and gasping for air, sobbing in between her breaths, and fists clenched as she stopped herself from punching the wall. The last time she did that, she broke three fingers and cracked a nail. She wanted to; but she couldn't bring herself to do it. And for whatever reason, she didn't know.

She thought of what could've been her life if she hadn't left at all. Perhaps she had the life Ginny had now. Perhaps she married Ron and had his children too. Perhaps she would've been better. Better than she was now. But… that wasn't her life. Those were the hopes that she once had but now lost after everything she had been through—buried underneath all her scars, forgotten.

But she wasn't the same girl anymore.

Looking up again, Hermione's breathing slowed. Her eyes swollen, her lips red from her biting, her cheeks blushed and fattened, and every inch of her face soaked in tears, sweat, and saliva. She took her wand, and charmed _Scourgify_ , removing the stains on her face, before fixing herself again. She reminded herself that she had wasted enough tears. She wiped away the traces of her grief; she couldn't show them this side of her, and told herself to get a fucking grip.

After, Hermione popped a pill into her mouth. She swallowed the pill, along with her desolated fucked-up hopes. Then she left.

* * *

 _A/N: Hello! Apologies for the late update. Let me send my gratitude to these two people: goldensnitch0423 (for beta-ing this chapter) and MiladyTairiell (for the pre-read). Thanks for reading! Reviews are much appreciated._


	9. Chapter Seven

**Chapter Seven**

 **HER UNBECOMING**

 _November 24, 2001_

Ms. Moore tapped her pen. Hermione had been counting the times she saw the woman tap her pen on the journal laid across her lap, and that was her fourth. The woman sat cross-legged on the other couch while Hermione sat almost too frigidly. She tucked her hands under her legs to keep them from shaking. But she could still feel the muscles on her upper arm flexing.

She sat there for thirty-five minutes. Quietly.

What was she doing here again? Right. Daphne Greengrass. That woman was such a buzzkill, monitoring Hermione's well-being as if she were her mother. Ms. Moore told her before that Daphne seemed to care about her, and Hermione snorted at that idea. Of course, she _thought_ that she cared. But Hermione didn't need anyone's care. She didn't want it. She despised it because caring meant that she also had to.

Ms. Moore asked, "How are you feeling?"

Worse. She had been feeling worse these last few weeks.

Days after her encounter at the Leaky Cauldron, the news about Ginny's pregnancy made the headlines of the Daily Prophet. Harry told the press that he was excited to be a father. Ginny also expressed her complaints about morning sickness, but ended up laughing. Their faces on the photographs printed right next to the article showed pure elation over the fact that they were expecting a child.

Hermione wished she had been that happy when she found out she was pregnant. But how could she? Her child wouldn't have been welcomed. She would've hated it. She knew that she could never see that child as a blessing but a curse that had trapped her into this never-ending punishment of bad dreams.

"Fine," Hermione muttered. She fiddled with her fingers. It seemed like a better thing to do than talk about her feelings. She had gotten good at lying; so when people asked her, she always said the same thing. Sometimes she said the same word twenty times and none of them would've noticed that blank look in her eyes. Only she could see through it.

"There seems to be something that's bothering you," Ms. Moore said.

"Fishing is not going to make me talk."

"We've seen each other eight times, and in most of those sessions, we did nothing but sit until the hour is over," the woman expressed. Hermione shot a sharp look at the woman. "I'd like to help, and I'm afraid I can't help you unless you let me in."

The muscles on her thigh began to tighten. Like the constriction in her chest.

"Tell me, Hermione. Why do you come here?"

"Because I don't have a choice, do I?"

"Do you really believe that?"

Did she? Hermione twisted her tongue inside her mouth, looking for letters stuck between her teeth, and perhaps she might find the right words to say. She had no choice. She never did. Not for three years. They took her choices. Her survival was the only thing that mattered. It didn't matter if it was morally right, or if she had hurt some people, or if she hurt herself. She did them because it was the easiest thing to do. She did them because she needed to.

"Why does it matter? I'm fine," Hermione hissed. Her nails dug under her thighs.

"Are you?"

Hermione hesitated. Why did she? Why did it seem like the words in her throat were trapped? Why didn't she believe herself when she said that word? She was a good liar. "I'm fine. I don't like talking about things because it doesn't matter. It's a waste of time," she hissed, anger swelling in her chest.

"Why is it a waste of time?"

"Because—" she stopped. Her voice had croaked. Each syllable got hitched on the lump in her throat. She pressed her tongue on the roof of her mouth and looked away. She exhaled deeply. "Because it's just the same. Nothing ever changes."

"What would you like to change?"

Ms. Moore began scribbling on her journal. Hermione wondered what she wrote but remained sitting quietly. She had been talking too much. She had said too much. She had to stop talking now. But the swell in her chest enlarged, warmed, throbbed in pain—urging her to keep talking. Before she could stop herself, she said, "Everything. The world is so cruel, and I was dragged into its violence that I'm imprisoned in its limbo, reliving this catastrophe over and over again." She paused. Tears brimmed in her eyes. "How do you forget a bad dream?"

Ms. Moore's eyes glistened with expression. What of, Hermione didn't know.

"You don't forget. You accept," Ms. Moore said, softly. "The more that you hide from it, the more that it hurts. Because you're not yet used to the pain. Pain is inevitable. Suffering is inevitable. Without it, we'd be stuck on a non-progressive cycle. But it doesn't end there. The end is not the end of everything; in fact, it is a beginning…"

Hermione stared blankly. Beginning of what? The end felt like the end, not the beginning. The end had killed everything that she used to be. She wasn't the same. This drastic change has done nothing but kill her. Repeatedly. She was exhausted from dying. She was tired of seeing herself die in every bottle of Firewhiskey she finished, in every cigarette she smoked, in every pill she took, in every man she fucked.

"Do you have a child, Ms. Moore?" Hermione asked, her voice firm. Yet she knew deeply that the tall walls she built around her was close to breaking. The cracks were widening. The ground shaking. The woman across Hermione looked at her with surprise but smiled.

"I do. Three, in fact. Two boys, and a girl," Ms. Moore answered.

"I almost had one," Hermione said. This was the first time she talked about it. She hadn't talked to anyone about it. Not to Luna, not to Daphne, not to her mother. Only Luna knew about the baby. But even Luna didn't know who the father was. She didn't know why Hermione had to get rid of it—

"What happened?"

Hermione raised her eyes and said flatly, "I killed it."

Ms. Moore breathed. She wrote again; the noise of her pen scratching against the paper on her journal was heard over the silence that distanced the two women.

"Why?"

"Because I can't see it. I can't bear to carry it," Hermione scowled. She felt the anger in her voice, at how deep her nails were digging to her thighs, at how her toes curled, at how warm her first tear falling felt on her cheek. Hermione's mouth trembled as she breathed, and she continued, "And I'm never going to be able to have a child again."

A memory flashed. Day at the clinic. Luna holding her hand. The doctor telling her, " _The probability of complications after this are high. Are you sure this is what you want? There are other alternatives such as adoption—_ "

Hermione had hissed at the doctor, " _I don't want it for adoption! I want to get rid it of it! I don't want to see it! I don't want to take care of it! I want it gone! I want you to take it out of me!_ " Her words, punctuated with the intensity of her rage and fear and shame and guilt, feelings colliding inside her in such a chaotic pattern. Each breath she took, she took for that baby. Each piece of food she ate, she ate it for that baby. She didn't want to share her body with that baby, with anyone, because it was her body.

"Why not?"

Ms. Moore's voice brought her back. Hermione shook her head. She was done talking; because if she kept talking, she would talk about everything. This was her fear. Her _greatest_ fear. To crack when all she had been doing for the last three years was hold herself together.

The alarm went off, and the hour was over. Hermione exhaled, not realizing that she had been holding her breath. Ms. Moore closed her journal. She reminded Hermione of their next session, handing her the same, yet newly-updated prescription, and bid her farewell. None of them spoke of what was supposed to be the answer to that question. None of them spoke about the last hour. Only a few words as if Hermione hadn't said anything at all like the past few weeks before she finally left.

Outside, Luna waited while reading the latest issue of the Quibbler. Hermione sighed, and their eyes met. She saw Luna's striking grey eyes glistening against the light that filled the room. "Oh hi. Ready?" Luna asked, as she began to gather her things.

Hermione nodded—not trusting her mouth to say the right words. Her mouth quivered, exhausted from all the talking she did. Soon after, both of them walked out of the building back to the crowded streets of Central London. Muggles walked across the street. Most of them minded their own business. Cars drove along the streets. The skies were wide open and blue. The heat of the sun stroke its warmth on Hermione's skin, relinquishing the remaining chill on her spine.

While they walked, Luna talked. She blabbered about Blaise coming over to dinner again tonight, how the weather seemed to be hotter than it was supposed to be, the Daily Prophet, the upcoming Christmas Ball, her work, gossips in the Wizarding World, and other things that Hermione generally never cared about. But she listened. She nodded and hummed and smiled at everything Luna talked about, but she didn't openly share her opinion.

She had hoped that Luna's rambling would distract her. But it failed to stop Hermione's mind from thinking. Instead, as Luna's voice began to lower, Hermione's thoughts became louder. She tried to forget that conversation she had engaged in the last hour but the words, the familiar sensations of pain reverberating all over her body, was strong enough to drag her back to that night.

That night. How she wished she could forget it. Ms. Moore had said that she couldn't forget; instead, she needed to accept. But how could she accept that? How could she accept that she had lost? How could she accept that this, this woman right here, was her now? How could she even dare to think about accepting it? No, she couldn't accept it. She didn't want to accept it. Because accepting it meant that she was alright with it.

"You okay, 'Mione?" Luna asked, pulling Hermione out of her thoughts, as they came near the apparition point. Hermione didn't look up; because she knew that once she did, her eyes would give the answer away. Humming softly, she nodded. Luna didn't ask anymore. Instead she flashed a smile and asked, "So Diagon Alley, then?" Arriving at the alley where the apparition point was, Luna took Hermione's hand, and together, they disapparated.

The next hour came in a blur. Her senses heightened and clouded her mind. Thoughts filled her as if a faucet leaked in the back of her brain. She tried to remember the events that occurred once they had arrived in Diagon Alley for lunch. She didn't expect it to happen. Or perhaps she did, but what she didn't was how soon it would happen. She had hoped she had more time. But it seemed that time had gotten tired of waiting for her—

Hermione slurred. She had finished five tiny liquor bottles in a span of a hundred and sixty seconds. Her throat burned from how fast she swallowed the alcohol until she drowned. The empty bottles clattered on the floor. She leaned against the brick wall, ankles twisted, struggling to keep herself upright.

But it wasn't enough.

How did she get here? She wasn't sure. She tried to remember the last hour, the last _fifteen_ minutes, before she came here. Her eyes were blank. Her chest heaving rapidly, trying to catch the breath she seemed to have lost. Her hands clenched tight, keeping her rage in between her palms. She could even hear the erratic beating of her heart, the blood rushing through her veins like a river caught in a storm.

Memories flashed.

Like a bullet bursting through the barrel of a gun.

She had left Luna in the middle of the street. With them. With _him_. Luna had called for her, and she heard the pain in her voice. The guilt, the shame—but not quite the same as how Hermione felt it. As their eyes met, Hermione knew that Luna had finally began to piece together the puzzle. The enigma had been broken. Her secrets had been laid open. Her unbecoming. Her uglies. Her fuck-ups. Whatever Luna meant to say, she didn't hear after she disapparated.

It was fast. Like a lightning bolt hitting a tree in the middle of nowhere. Her nerves had been fried; everything about her ached. She didn't expect him. No, because he wasn't supposed to be here. He wasn't supposed to come her way. To stand two feet from her. To look at her as if he didn't know her. To have another woman after what he did to her.

But he was. He had stood—tall and confident. He had looked at her with such a blank expression. Neither apologizing, nor suffering. The fingers that had touched her, marked her, were intertwined with another woman's hand. Her name was Katie Bell. She remembered Katie from Hogwarts. They were in the same house, in the same year, in the same classes, in the same dormitory. She remembered her enough to know her well; but what she remembered the most, in such a vivid image, was him. His fucking red hair, his damn freckles, and his flaccid dick—

If her brain could only turn back like her head could, she would've. But the sheer will of her brain was much weaker than she had hoped. She couldn't simply make herself forget. She had been taking glimpses of that night by accident that she sometimes thought that she had wanted to remember to punish herself. Of what? Of being weak. Of being a failure.

And she was. He had won—a battle that she didn't want to participate in, but had been forced to. So that she may survive. Surviving meant to do anything to keep her alive. Sane. Or whatever state she needed to be to remain herself. It was such an exhausting process. She had walked, ran, swam, drowned, and even crawled as if both of her legs were crippled and useless.

Katie had been the one to approach them. Her hand tugging his, she pulled him toward them. Hermione's lungs constricted for lack of air. She couldn't breathe. The air thickened. It smelled of rusted metal, burning her lungs faster than her cigarettes could.

Luna and Katie hugged. Next, Katie's arm slung over Hermione's in an embrace. Her body stiffened, and tried to look away. But he was too close. She could smell him. She could see him. She could almost touch him. It was both hard to look and not to look, an irony that she didn't fully comprehend. Katie squealed, " _Oh Merlin! I can't believe I'd see you here. We'd just gotten back from Spain—_ "

The sensations of his mouth planting wet and open-mouthed kisses all over her skin resurfaced. She could feel him again. Even if he stood two feet from her, she could feel him. He was too close. She remembered the smell of Firewhiskey in his breath as he murmured into her ears, as he breathed down her neck, as he forced his mouth on her. Standing this close to him, she found herself on the ground again. He was on top of her. Her chest pressed against the floorboards. One hand holding her hands together as the other worked to push her skirt up and her knickers off. She whimpered when her throat didn't have enough strength to wail. Without a second, she was stretched wide as he pushed in. She had cried. She had sobbed. She had begged him. But he didn't listen to her pleas.

Nobody did.

" _Really? You're here for the Christmas, then?_ " Luna asked, smiling.

" _Yes. Well,_ _not exactly. We're here for the wedding._ Our _wedding,_ " Katie explained. Hermione watched as Katie's hand tightened her hold onto his fingers. Katie smiled. He placed a gentle kiss at the top of her head. Luna smiled too. But Hermione—no, she was breaking.

" _That is fantastic, Katie! Congratulations!_ "

Luna pulled Katie into another hug. Katie looked up to her fiancé. Eyes glistening in happy tears. His eyes were shadowed with something else; but he smiled back. Katie said, " _Thanks, Luna! You're invited, of course! Both of you. I mean it won't be like Harry and Ginny's… but, we'd want to have you, guys. Right, love?_ "

He nodded. She caught a glimpse of his eyes, and looked away.

" _When is it?_ "

" _Christmas Eve. It will only be a small celebration at the Burrow—"_

She swallowed the desire to scream. The lump in her throat didn't subside. It even grew larger, and anger swelled in her chest. What the hell was he doing here? Time stretched. Hermione didn't know how long she stood there; but a second more, she would lose it. Her pulse thrummed against her wrist. Her neck. Her chest.

" _How about you come over for dinner sometime? Then we can talk about it. We'd love to have you,_ " Luna said. The excitement in her voice was unmistakable.

Suddenly, a knife plunged right into the middle of her chest. She felt it twist, going back and forth, and the pain never leaving her body. She saw Luna—the glistening in her eyes, the sheer bliss in her words, the betrayal. Even if Luna didn't know, Hermione couldn't help but feel as if the closest person she had to a friend had stabbed her in the back.

No, she didn't want them in her flat. No, she didn't want to talk about the wedding. His wedding. No, she didn't want to stand closer to him than two feet because feeling him breathe an inch closer to her, it would be her death.

Hermione uttered a soft, hissing curse under her breath. None of them heard. Katie agreed, bouncing up and down, with a bright smile flashing onto her face. Luna gave her the address to their flat. Hermione felt close to vomiting.

She pulled herself back to reality. Her reveries shattered, and a hand pressed against a wall as she supported herself. She had cried more than enough tears; but the shame still didn't leave her. It clawed unto her layers of muscle in attempt to stay a little bit longer. No amount of alcohol or cigarettes would erase it—

She shook her head. Why had she come here? Even to Hermione, the answer seemed too alien to even be recognized. Least, accepted. She has no reason to be here. Never had. She thought about leaving. To take a simple turn and disapparate. She tried to move; but her legs stiffened as her mind defied her own body, her hands leaning hard onto the wall that resulted into her fingers turning white, and her abdomen twisting in knots with every hollow breath she took.

Hermione counted how long she stood there; but her focus broke as her senses were clouded by the incessant ringing in her ears. Everything around her seemed to have decelerated, as if they were all sinking and the water had them moving against the currents.

She tripped down her memories. Stumbling, her feet staggering to get back up but the memories resurfacing crippled her. It sunk her under a quicksand. Swimming was an impossibility. How could she begin to swim when it kept dragging her down?

She remembered all of it. Him. His face, his bad breath, his body colliding into hers. Her leaving, dragging her suitcase down the spiral stairs. Ron's anger. Harry's pleas. Ginny's tears. Sitting on the toilet, crying. Luna telling her that they would figure it out. The doctor telling her of complications. Her anger. Her pain. Drinking, smoking, the bars she went to, and all of the men she fucked. Three men on top of her. Daphne dragging her across the sidewalk to her flat. Malfoy and his damn hands.

Now, she needed to forget. At least, for five minutes.

"Granger?" It was Blaise. He had passed her; but stopped as he recognized her walking down the long hall in their building. She turned to him; and once their eyes met, she saw an unfamiliar look flash in his. Like realization had hit him.

"Is he in his office?"

She couldn't stop herself from asking. Once the words left her mouth, her teeth had trapped her tongue in between to hold it back. She bit it hard until it bled. Blood spread across the tunnel of her mouth. She could taste it like a venom—

"Yeah, I think so," Blaise said. He looked forward. She hadn't noticed her surroundings until then. The hall that they both stood at was long and narrow. Employees walked by without paying attention to either of them. He asked, "Would you like me to walk you there?"

She nodded. Her mouth sewn. What was she supposed to say to Blaise? Her tongue tied and dried as they walked down the long hall leading to where Draco's office was. Both of them quiet; neither was acknowledging the fact that she was there without being invited to or appointing a meeting of some sort, nor question her purpose for being there. Like he had offered, he simply walked with her. She fidgeted as she walked with him, and she wished that he hadn't notice. Her body failed to follow the control her mind was giving, because her mind too was suffering from a storm of whirlwind emotions.

Frustration. Rage. Hurt. Confusion. Shame. Guilt. Desperation. The list could go on; but instead, she kept her head focused by counting her steps.

"You okay, Hermione?" Blaise asked, a hint of nonchalance recognizable.

Once again, she nodded. Since she couldn't trust her hands to stop from shaking, she couldn't trust herself to mutter a lie. Fine was such a self-destructive word. To some people, it meant as it did. To others, and to the right people, it meant so much more. Perhaps a whole new world of meanings for such a short four-lettered word. Blaise dwelled on the latter. He was indeed one of the right people. Even as she nodded, she wasn't sure if he believed her because even she didn't believe _her_.

She wouldn't. Not now. Not looking like this.

Reaching two large doors, Blaise stopped. His hand touched one of the doorknobs and rested his eyes on Hermione, before saying, "It's nice to see you again." With that, he twisted the knob and pushed the door ajar. The creaking hinges most likely announced their arrival; and as Hermione looked to her right, Draco Malfoy had his eyes set on hers. Blaise muttered a farewell, sent a knowing look at Malfoy, before deciding to leave.

Malfoy said, "Please do come in, Granger. I'd rather talk in private if that's what you came for."

She entered. Her footsteps heavy in each fall, and tried not to slur. The alcohol finally reached her brain, and her vision blurring the longer she stood. The door closed behind her. She didn't remember pushing it back; but when she looked at Malfoy, his wand was pointing at it, an indication that it was his gesture to close the door.

"Is it?" He asked, setting his wand on the side.

"What?"

"Is that what you came for? To talk?"

Hermione didn't know what she came for. She didn't know what had fucking possessed her to come here. She was confused at her own actions that nothing—none of the last two hours—had made any sense to her. Her logic and reasoning seemed lost to what was happening.

He stood. He walked to a cabinet and poured two glasses of whatever drink he had. His back turned to her, and as he turned, surprise had made him drop the glasses on the carpet. The drink spilled all over the rug. The glasses rolling sideways. But Hermione had him pinned against the cabinet with all the strength left in her. Her rage was a good resource for such energy. Hands gripped tightly on the collar of his shirt, as tight as the first time she had done this, and her knuckles had turned white at how hard she pushed him onto the cabinet.

He breathed, "Granger… What are you doing?"

She heard the confusion in his voice. Not the confusion that meant he didn't know what was happening; but the confusion that dabbled between his desire to react to her actions and the need for control over this ridiculous situation.

"Make me forget, Malfoy…" asked her, and her eyes almost pleading him to give in, "…please."

Before he could respond, she kneeled down in front of him. He looked at her with such bewilderment but he didn't say anything. He tried to mutter a word; however, the feeling of her hands removing the lock of his belt had made it impossible to utter more than a pleasured groan. His pants came down. She smirked at the sight of his tented boxers and dragged it to his ankles as well, before she finally took him whole in her mouth.

The moan he unintentionally made only fed Hermione's ego. She had control again.

Control. It was an addiction, a drug heightening her senses as soon as it hit her brain. Every neuron in her body igniting at how her lips wrapped around his throbbing cock inch by inch.

"Fuck, Granger. What the bloody hell—"

She could feel him fighting the arousal that he had in her mouth; but as her tongue slid across its length, he couldn't even finish what he needed to say. She had him wrapped around her tiny little finger. Like the rest of the men she fucked.

One hand gripped onto his balls. The other cupping his arse, urging him to fuck her mouth until he came. Until his dick softened after an orgasm. But he didn't. He removed the hand on his butt cheek and the one that massaged his balls so tenderly before he could explode in her mouth. She looked up at him with a plea to not make her stop; but he needed to. And so he pulled himself off of her.

Almost too forcibly.

He wanted it. But he was fighting her.

Hermione stumbled on the ground as he gathered his trousers up. He quickly zipped and fixed the belt, as a frustrated sigh left his lips. "What the fuck, Granger? Is this always what's going to happen whenever we meet?" He gritted his teeth as each word came out fast without him even stopping to breath. He was turned on, and utterly confused—a combination that wasn't entirely good.

"God, you're such a pansy. I thought all men like when women suck their dicks," she snorted while pulling herself to stand. She almost fell. The alcohol was getting to her.

"I'm a man, Granger. Of course I fucking like it," he seethed. She huffed. "But you're so bloody confusing. You ignore me for weeks; and now, you come here without even a proper greeting to suck me off. Do you have some weird fetish to suck anyone?"

"What is it to you, anyway?" She snapped. Her hands flailed as she talked. "Why do you bloody care about my fucking well-being? You don't get to care. Not for everything you said to me. I'm a _mudblood_. Or do you not remember that you used to rub that in my fucking face?"

Malfoy flinched when she said that word. She didn't.

"What? Do you feel remorse for all that shit you said to me? I'm nothing but a _mudblood_. I'm fucking _beneath_ you! You should even be proud that _mudblood_ Granger offered to suck you off—"

Without a thought, his hands had pulled her. It gripped onto her arms so tightly that he feared it might bruise; but none of it mattered at that moment. Rage was boiling in his skin. Just as hot as her own anger felt like. He shook her as if he could shake some sense into her addled brain, and shouted, "For fuck's sake! Wake up! Why do you keep doing this shit to yourself?"

Tears brimmed in her eyes. He saw it, and the fear in his eyes shifted his heightened emotions from anger to pity. She felt it, and the fear in her eyes deepened as the thought of shedding tears in front of him. She never let anyone see her cry. Not Luna. Most definitely not him. But his hands on her arms made it difficult to fight off the tears.

"Because I need it!" She wailed, and the tears had fallen. It streamed across her cheeks. It ruined the mascara she had reapplied before she came here. Her muscles flexing at his touch. "It is all I have. It gives me control over my body when I had none of it for three _fucking_ years. And when someone touches me, all I could feel is his fucking hands like he never left. Like _I_ never left. Like I was still in that room, lying on the ground, while he worked his way on me like some piece of meat. I still hear him in my sleep. I still feel his breath on my skin. I couldn't move, and even when I had screamed, no one could hear me. He marked me as his own. His property. I tried to gain back the little I have left in me—but how could I when all I see is him? I can't feel _anything_ anymore.

"Now, he's getting married to Katie _fucking_ Bell. He has moved on; while I'm still living in that nightmare over and over again," she drawled while tears continuously flowed down her face. The moment she realized what she had said, it had been too late. He heard her. He heard all of it—the feelings she had tried so hard to bury for the last three years, the memories that she hadn't let anyone see or know. Her eyes widened as she stood there, unaware of what she needed to say, and an unfamiliar atmosphere between them.

The anger in his eyes had faded.

"Granger—"

She turned, and dragged herself to the door. "I have to go. I can't—"

The door slammed shut as she walked out and left.

* * *

 _A/N: Wow. Apologies for the late update. I've been having difficulty writing this chapter. Anyway, that was a heavy one, don't you think? Too much revelations. Who do you think did this to Hermione? Hmm. Can anyone guess? We'll see. Or you can just wait for the next chapter. Thanks to my awesome beta, JularaVon! You are beyond amazing! And also, my gratitude is extended to those who keep on supporting this story. You're all awesome. 'Til next time, lovelies._


	10. Chapter Eight

**Chapter Eight**

 **HIS DAMNATION**

 _November 25, 2001_

There were three important things that Draco had been taught to remember: he was a wizard, his bloodline was one of the oldest pureblood families in their world, and that he was a Malfoy. Carrying the name while his father spent the rest of his life in Azkaban, Draco realized that it drew more attention to him now than he had received when he was a boy; and he disliked it.

He never liked how the press stuck their noses into his personal business. Once his acquittal for his crimes after the war had been declared, Draco bribed a couple of staff members in several newspaper companies to keep his name out of the media. He scrubbed the mud off his family name. He rebuilt the Malfoy name back to what it used to be, the glory and the power of his bloodline, and that he had accomplished.

It wasn't a simple task that could've been resolved with a flick of a wand; but the results were sweeter than sugar itself. He admitted that he hadn't been the same since the war, nor had his mother. Narcissa Malfoy's former choices about blood purity fueled the fight against the _dirty filth_ , as his father referred to them, and took away their lives. Draco lost his innocence, his mother lost her dignity. But for three years, the Malfoys tried to put their past behind them and their lives back together. Others still kept a wary look like Potter and the Weasleys, but Draco ignored them as far as they ignored him too.

The Malfoys suffered, albeit most people's opinion.

So did Granger.

He stood, palms pushed against the tiled wall of his shower. Water dripped from his head to the inches of his body until the floor flooded around his bare feet. Draco hadn't slept for more than an hour or two. His mind drifted to his thoughts on Granger, and her words leaving him disoriented the more that he thought about it. She had suffered in silence. The look that he saw in her eyes before she left had told him enough that she hadn't meant to blurt out any of that.

It had been too late. He heard her, and he couldn't ignore it. Her voice receded to the back of his head like an echo that refused to leave him alone. How could it when he was the only one who knew what she had been through? He couldn't forget. Not even as much as he wanted to because somewhere in the far corner of her mind, she had trusted him enough when she couldn't trust anyone. He didn't know when she began to trust him, or perhaps she hadn't realized it yet, but somewhere along the stream of their relationship, he had a connection with her that she didn't have with anyone else.

Something he only had.

Blaise asked him a little while after Granger had left. Both had just dismissed a meeting, and was left alone in the conference room while the rest of their employees dispersed back into their tiny little office desks. Draco had to clear his throat, attempting to swallow that lump stuck in his throat, before saying, " _Nothing. We talked. That's all._ "

He had always been a good liar. In times like this, Draco managed to deceive his friends with a lie that he had only come up with within the second. He could build a fictional world in a matter of seconds without blinking; but with Blaise—or his mother—he never could. But Blaise knew. Draco lied, and he didn't need to admit that he lied because Blaise already knew.

" _Try again, mate. I don't believe you,_ " Blaise told him, smirking.

But what the hell was he supposed to say? The truth—that Granger came in to suck him off, and when he refused, she broke into tears while telling him that the reason she fucked everyone was because she had been sexually assaulted by the man who was going to marry Katie _fucking_ Bell?

No, of course not.

Draco didn't answer. He intended to ignore the question until Blaise got tired of asking. But of course, that didn't happen. Blaise looked at him. " _Well, I'll be damned_ ," Blaise muttered, almost laughing. Draco turned to his best friend and found Blaise staring right at him with a foolish grin curved upon his face. Looking as if he had just realized something.

Blaise could call him anything. But no, he wasn't going to tell him that. That was Granger's secret; and he felt partly obligated to keep it for her. Her confession had made her vulnerable to Draco's eyes. The mask, the walls that she had built between her and the world had finally crumbled to the bricks it was once—and he could see her naked.

Raw. Scars and all. Yet beautiful.

Merlin, where was all this coming from? Since when did Granger become beautiful to him? Yes, she wasn't unpleasant to look at. She had a fair look whenever she didn't have all that dark make-up covering her face and a slim body that he had sometimes fantasized to touch. He didn't know. He didn't even know how he started to see her as a friend. She hated _friends_ , but even if she didn't consider him as one, he told himself that they were as some assurance that he hadn't lost his mind.

She didn't have friends. Her five minute encounter with Saint Potter and his redhead sidekick, Weasley, had been bad enough to urge her to drive him against the back of her front door and fuck him senseless on her couch. No, she hated that word. She loathed the thought of that concept; and now he knew why she disliked it so much.

Trust was such a fickle thing. Difficult to mold, yet so easy to break. No one knew. Not even those two losers. She couldn't trust them enough to tell them the truth. Why, he didn't know. He didn't care about them. Draco didn't care about anyone except Blaise and his mother, and when he did, he made sure that his actions were subtle and unnoticeable.

But he cared for her. Greatly, and he failed to hide it. Why her?

" _Why do you bloody care about my fucking well-being? You don't get to care. Not for everything you said to me. I'm a mudblood. Or do you not remember that you used to rub that in my fucking face?_ " He winced at the sound of her voice echoing in his head like some broken record. His hands pressed onto the side of the sink harder as his chest weighed heavier. " _What? Do you feel remorse for all that shit you said to me? I'm nothing but a mudblood. I'm fucking beneath you! You should even be proud that mudblood Granger offered to suck you off—_ "

He had grabbed her. He didn't remember between the second that she rambled and the moment his hands found her arms to hold on tight. No, time had moved too fast that when he had crushed her around his fingers, he couldn't let go. Anger had fueled his brain to move, to act, to hold her when she seemed close to falling apart. He was shaking, and without even realizing, he was shaking her too. Then he had bawled at her, " _For fuck's sake! Wake up! Why do you keep doing this shit to yourself?_ " He felt that his words were the trigger point that made her walls crash into nothing but ash—and that she did.

She cried, she screamed, she wailed, she paced—and in those actions, he felt the shame that she had been feeling for the last three years. The same kind of shame that coursed through his bloodstream. He watched how her chest heaved, how her eyes widened in anger, how her tears slid across her face, how her body almost folded into seven because of how little she felt, and he knew because he felt it. He had felt it. Not just for three years but perhaps a little longer than that.

Fuck. He didn't know why he cared about her. He just did. Wasn't that enough?

Stepping out, he reached for a towel and began to rub himself dry. His blond hair which he had normally pushed in a neat manner was ruffled in a discombobulated tangle. The angle of his jawline was twisted as he tried to control the frustration growling somewhere inside him like a damn lunatic on the loose. Draco almost didn't look like himself. He had grown. Muscles filled his arms and torso. He looked better than he ever had in the war; but all that had been on the outside, his inside rotten and decomposing as he struggled to fulfill the responsibilities of a Malfoy, something he had been forced to take on after his father had been sentenced to a life imprisonment in Azkaban.

Sunday was the day for his mother's tea parties. She would invite her pureblood friends and have some tea in the garden while gossiping. So when he exited his room, he could hear the pretentious laughter of several women as he stood at the top of the stairs. The house-elves were popping in and out of the foyer with trays in their hands as they served refreshments to his mother's guests. Walking, his steps softly reverberated around the walls of their Manor and took him to the door that led to the garden—

"Draco!" The shrill penetrated into his eardrums that he might've lost his hearing for a few seconds. Behind him was Pansy Parkinson in one of her purple tea-length dresses. Once she reached him, she leaned to plant a peck on his lips but he had twisted his face in time that her lips landed onto his cheek. It sent a cold shiver down his spine. He cringed. She pouted, "You're such a tease, Draco. But I'm so glad you could join us. Perhaps we could explore the Manor later?"

He rolled his eyes. Inwardly.

"What exploration could you have needed? Scared you might get lost in one of your bathroom trips? Take a damn house-elf," Draco said. He recoiled, and fought the strong urge to wipe himself clean of her hands. She tucked a lower lip out. Her eyes blinking. Merlin, could she even get more presumptuous? Couldn't she take a bloody hint? How dense could she get?

He hissed, "What are you even doing here?"

"I was invited. Or Mother was, but she brought me along. She thought it might be good for us to see each other again," she said, enthusiastically.

Draco snorted. Of course, her mother would think that. Priscilla Parkinson made it her devotion to fulfill Pansy's bizarre obsession of being a Malfoy. Something about being able to travel the world and shop for designer bags and shoes in Paris.

He found his mother standing on the far end. She wore a dark green dress, wrapped around her slim figure and cut below the knees. She had grown a few inches taller with the pair of black heels that she matched her dress with. A handful of her blonde hair was gathered into a tie behind her head while the rest flowed graciously over her bare shoulders. Her hand wrapped around a cup of tea while she engaged a conversation with one of her colleagues.

Suddenly, a hand slapped onto his shoulder that made him turn to the direction where it came from. Pansy looked close to crying. Then she shrieked, "Why won't you listen to me?"

"Why would I? Surely, my mother is more interesting than you are," Draco snapped. The truth hurts, and Pansy gasped at what he said. What he didn't understand was how his hostility still seemed to surprise her as if it were a new thing. But it wasn't.

"You're always so mean to me!"

"Oh, there's a reason for that. Do you _really_ need a list?"

With a stomp of her heel, she left. Stormed off. He didn't care. His hands pushed deep in his pockets, and his eyes refocused to his mother. She looked at him. He knew that his mother saw his encounter with _that_ _nosy_ _bint_ , and that it hadn't been pleasurable. He noticed a worried look on her face, but slowly, he shook his head as if to assure her that it was fine.

That he was fine. Was he?

Having to live along with his mother for three years had made their bond stronger. Not only as a result of the war, but also because he had no one to confide in besides his mother. He could tell her things that he couldn't with most people. She could tell him things that she couldn't with any of these women she invited. Together, they had survived the war.

Crawled out of it, even.

Slowly, he walked to his mother. She looked more radiant as he reached her. Each of the lines on her face were distinct, outlined, and detailed. Her eyes, a clear shade of blue, highlighted by the sun. Cheekbones high and pink with a light touch of make-up. Half of her blonde hair were tied behind her head while the rest flowed smoothly over her bare shoulders, showing a bit of her naturally pale skin. Draco stood about half a foot taller than his mother. But Narcissa somehow found a reconciliation between looking formidable and charming at the same time.

"Hello, Mother. Having fun?" He asked, and his mother flashed a smile.

He leaned, planting a kiss on his mother's forehead. When he pulled back, his mother opened her eyes as she had closed them to feel Draco's affection even better. Narcissa lifted her hand to touch the side of his face and said, "Indeed I am. I'm pleased that you've decided to grace us with your presence, son. You look dashing, of course. Some of my guests' daughters are fawning over you."

Draco smirked, smugly.

"Well, I've had enough women fawning over me. Pansy Parkinson proves to be quite a handful, and I'm not so sure I can handle more," he said, smiling. "I might pop over to the office in a while. I just thought I'd drop by and perhaps have a cup of tea—"

"But you'll be joining me for dinner, won't you?"

"Of course I will," he said. His mother needed his presence. She needed him. And he was going to be there, the same way she was for him.

Narcissa ran her hands over his coat and smiled. Then she asked, "Are you ever going to tell what has been bothering you since last night?"

"I'm fine, Mother." Sigh. "No need to be concerned."

"Oh, but I am. I am your mother after all. I'll always worry about you," she said. Then a pause before she tiptoed upward and planted a soft peck on his cheek followed by a whisper, "Bring her over sometime. I'd like to meet this woman—"

With that, she was gone and he was damned.

While his mother went on to entertain her guests, Draco remained standing on one side as a spectator. He looked, and observed, and watched as these women spread gossip like butter on a loaf of bread. Like bees buzzing around. He _despised_ gossip. If there was anything worse than the press, it was these women who came to tea to chat about the latest fashion trend or who dated who. He never liked giving his attention to nonsensical things because he never personally liked being seen as well, but what he liked didn't matter more than his mother's.

He was selfish. Always had been. Most of his life, he was provided with everything he wanted. But standing in the garden while he watched his mother, he realized that her desires meant more to him than any of his own. If she asked him to stand all day long in a garden full of people that had no depth in life, he would. He would smile, nod, and talk. He would lie to them about what a good time he was having. He would pretend to be pouring with euphoria as he interacted with them.

Not long, his mind drifted back into his thoughts about Granger. The spark in her eyes had been gone, the confidence to strike back when she felt being stepped on, the courage to speak her mind regardless of what people might say. She had been fighting a war inside of her for three years. All alone. Hiding in some dark shadow until she had finally forgotten that memory.

But no one forgets. Not even him.

He couldn't forget the war. The night Voldemort had tasked him to kill Dumbledore. The night his father had told him that that task comes with a threat that if he hadn't delivered, his mother would be punished. Tormented. Killed. The day he came in his sixth year and saw Dumbledore with an apologetic look in his eyes. The night he stood there holding his own wand, pointing to an unarmed old man, with an unrecognizable look in his eyes. His Aunt Bella's whisper. Snape taking over, and how he felt so relieved and guilty for the next events of that evening. The day the Snatchers caught Granger and her friends. Being asked if he recognized them, and he did, but he mustered enough courage in his chest to lie. The end of the war. The trial. The sentence. The looks people gave them for being acquitted of all crimes.

No, no one forgets. No one forgives. No one accepts.

Merlin. Even Blaise had suffered. Despite his sarcasm, he hid behind a mask. It concealed a face that not even Draco has seen quite often. He wondered if Luna had seen it. Blaise talked about his nightmares, and after a minute, he would laugh it off and make a joke. No, Blaise was never serious because being serious was Draco's affair.

"Cup of tea?" He spun at the sound of that voice. As Draco looked to his left, he found Daphne Greengrass also looking at him. A grin perked at the corner of her red lips. She had pushed him a warm cup of chamomile tea, the steam billowing from its rim, and he reluctantly accepted. He hadn't realized that the Greengrasses were invited as well. But it didn't matter. She was here. She said, "Good afternoon, Draco. Thank you for inviting us—"

"You should be thanking my mother. She invited you. Not me, Daphne," he snickered.

"Right. But you could've fought against it," Daphne said.

His frown deepened. Then with one look, he realized. Astoria, her sister who he had previously dated. He glanced, looking around for Astoria, and soon, he found her looking right at him. He couldn't ignore the look that Astoria gave him. Her eyes washing over him like a bucket of cold water. He knew that as much as he felt strange, she did too. He remembered—and their last conversation too quiet that once he told her that he wanted to end it, all she did was give him a look before agreeing with him, without much of a fight. It hurt him, not because he left her, but because he _hurt_ her; and even if it wasn't his intention, he cannot argue the fact that he still caused her pain.

Even to Draco, he didn't know the reason for his decisions. Was it that simple? To wake up one day next to a woman and feel nothing at all? Was he that selfish? Perhaps he was. Perhaps he never really loved her, as much as she loved him. And even if he lacked moral compass when it came to other's emotions, he felt in himself that ending it was the best—and right—choice.

He turned to Daphne. She brought her own cup to her lips and took a sip. He remembered Granger asking him if he and Daphne were friends. His answer was vague, defining his relationship with Daphne as something between friends and strangers but never quite either. She only talked to him when Astoria was present, and vice versa; but none of them tried to reach out as friends. But Draco remembered Daphne's involvement in Granger's life, only confusing him more, and he itched to know everything. He knew some things that she hadn't openly told anyone. But there were still some pieces missing. He didn't know why; but Granger haunted him like a broken puzzle waiting to be pieced together. Whenever he looked at her eyes, he found nothing but a depth that he could never reach.

Even more so now that he knew.

With her words, Draco chuckled. Daphne remained standing there, two feet from him, holding a half-filled cup of tea in her hand. Then he said, "I am a selfish man; but not when it comes to my mother. It's not like one can ever win an argument against her."

It was Daphne's turn to laugh. Slowly, it died into a smile.

"How's Hermione?" He surprised himself when his head snapped at Daphne's question, almost too obvious.

"Why are you asking me?"

"Oh, Draco. I talk to Luna, of course. We work together, remember?" Daphne said, flashing another sweet smile. Then she continued, "You've been having dinner at their flat a couple of times. Plus, I heard about Pansy's outburst in that Muggle restaurant that Hermione likes. And that incident with Harry and Ron. Word gets around, you know…"

Draco groaned. _Fucking blabbermouths_ , he cursed. "Well then, shouldn't you be asking Luna? They are flatmates, after all." He tried to sound convincing; but by the sound of that strain in his voice, he knew that he failed.

"I'm asking you, Draco."

"What is this? A fucking interrogation—"

"Look," Daphne interrupted him. Her voice firm as if she needed him to hear her. He exhaled deeply, yet the weight in his chest remained. "I've only known Hermione for a few months. It wasn't even a pleasant memory. But she isn't the person who easily lets in another. And I'm not stupid, Draco, I know that there's something going on. You don't have to tell me. Just tell me how she is…"

Their eyes met. No one spoke; but their eyes said enough.

He wondered if she knew enough. If she knew a few of Granger's secrets. Or if she knew as little as he once did. Like Blaise had once told him, Granger wasn't someone who simply talked to anyone about anything. Her words were always vague and covered with multiple layers of meaning.

"What happened six months ago?"

The question fell out of Draco's mouth before he could stop it. A sense of surprise and guilt soon overcame him; but since he had gotten good at hiding his emotions most of the time, he pretended as if he meant to ask that. Then he heard her ask, "How'd you know about that?"

She didn't sound angry. He looked down at her, hoping that he would see in her face what she knew, what she felt, but she was looking around as if she needed to see anything else aside from his eyes.

"Blaise had mentioned it."

Then Daphne faced him. This time, she smiled. But it wasn't a smile that expressed bliss; rather, he found it sympathetic. As if she, too, didn't know anything but wanted to. "Perhaps I'll tell you one day. It's nice to talk to you, Draco. I'll see you around," Daphne said before finally leaving.

For a few minutes, he stood a little bit longer. He nestled the almost lukewarm tea in his hand, occasionally listening to noise made across him. His mother talked to a few of her pureblood friends, silently wishing that her smile would last all day. It has been a long time since the last time he had seen her smile like that, filled with joy and excitement as she socialized with old friends. As for Draco, his social life circulated to a handful of selected acquaintances—some he had befriended because his father had asked him to, some he socialized with because his business called for it, and some he engaged with for the sake of his uplifting the Malfoy image.

But the only friend he had was Blaise. His best friend. Someone who knew the ins and outs, the highs and lows, of his brain like the back of his hand. Someone who knew him better than anyone.

"Oh dear Salazar," an old woman said, out of nowhere; and he spun to see Mrs. Bulstrode talking to Mrs. Nott. "Have you heard? Another Weasley's getting married—"

Draco inhaled the sweetness of his tea.

"Who's this one marrying now?" Mrs. Nott asked, sounding too curious.

"That Bell girl—"

"Katie Bell? Wasn't she working at the Ministry under the Care for Magical Creatures?" Suddenly, a hitch developed in Draco's chest. He didn't like to gossip but at the sound of Katie Bell's name poked his interest like an iron rod that had been stoked onto the fire for too long. And it burned.

"Oh yes, indeed," Mrs. Bulstrode nodded. "She's friends with my little Millie, you know. Millie was asked to be one of the bridesmaids. Merlin, the wedding made it to the gossip column of the Daily Prophet. They met in Spain, according to the article, and has been dating for five months. Five months! Too early to get married, don't you think?"

Mrs. Nott hummed in agreement.

Draco turned. He greeted the two old women standing behind him as he excused himself. His feet leapt to the house almost too quickly that his feet nearly got caught a latch. "Kori!" His voice echoed on the large Manor, resounding against the walls, when the aging elf popped right in front of him. He turned, "Kori—will you please bring me the latest issue of the Daily Prophet? Immediately—"

Kori snapped his fingers. It followed by the appearance of a folded newspaper in his hands. Before the elf could offer it, Draco stole it right off his hand and skipped to the gossip column. Fingers too dry from how he scanned the paper with tension; and once his eyes landed on the piece of article that he was looking for, his chest constricted even tighter as he saw the title.

 _ **CHARLIE WEASLEY AND KATIE BELL**_

 _ **TO WED ON CHRISTMAS EVE**_

Thoughts of Granger flashed back to him. Like water rushing into his punctured lungs, and no matter how hard he breathed, no amount of air seemed enough to release the anxiety inside him. " _Now, he's getting married to Katie fucking Bell. He has moved on; while I'm still living in that nightmare over and over again…_ " Granger's voice broke him. The pleading, the hurt, the anger, the disgust she felt for herself—he _fucking_ felt it. It made him want to curl and punch something hard until the bones in his hands cracked. His fingers tightened around the edges of the newspaper. The sides crumpled under his hands. The sound of paper crumbling didn't even distract him from the pain he felt.

Charlie _fucking_ Weasley.

* * *

 _A/N: And there answers the biggest question of all. But the problem doesn't end there, trust me. We're just at the tip of the iceberg, and it'll all crash down nicely. Or drastically. Whichever it may be, we'll see when we get there, won't we? Anyway, this is a treat to you, my lovely readers, because it took me weeks to update the last chapter. They are inseparable, you see. So what did you think? I updated as soon as I can because I don't like you to wait; but sometimes, my anxieties suck that I had to rewrite some chapters like three times before I approve of it (like the last chapter). This one's easier because about three-quarters of this is made up of drafts that I've saved. Anyway, thanks for the support! And also, thank you to my wonderful beta - JularaVon - for finding some misplaced words and typo grammatical mistakes when my eyes fail to notice them. She works fast, and wonders on my chapter. Reviews are much appreciated! Thank you! 'Til next time!_


	11. Chapter Nine

**Chapter Nine**

 **WE'LL FIGURE IT OUT**

 _November 25, 2001_

"Hermione? Can we talk?"

With a hand pressed against the bedroom door, Luna stood. She held her feet firm on the ground and tried so hard not to crumble. Her forehead rested onto the wooden surface while she waited, and along with the sound of deep breath, Luna listened to the misguided sobs echoing behind it. She imagined Hermione to be sitting somewhere in there with a full bottle of Firewhiskey and a newly-opened pack of cigarettes to finish by the end of the night; and Luna could only feel so helpless.

The moment Hermione left, she knew. The shame washed onto her like a tidal wave, a bit too fast and too strong that her attempts to swim against the currents failed. He stood there. Two feet from them. Holding Katie Bell's hand. And yet, Luna had failed to notice. She greeted them. She smiled at them. She had even invited them over for dinner. How could she have missed it?

Her fingers agitated. Sweated. She pushed her hand further against the surface of the door. Her breathing slowed, deepened as the air tried to reach the end of her lungs until there was no space for her to breathe anymore. Her feet almost gave out. Luna opened her mouth to say something but closed it again when she found herself lost for words. So she breathed again.

Twelve hours had gone since then. Hermione had stumbled into their flat a little over two hours ago. She reeked—of alcohol, of burnt cigarettes, of sweat, and most importantly, of grief. Luna held onto her elbows to keep her upright while she managed to sway toward her bedroom. But with a dangerous hiss, Hermione pushed it off. Luna watched as she dragged herself down the corridor. She wanted to say something; but the words she had been preparing to say for the last ten hours had been dried off. The next thing Luna heard from the living room was the door hitting its frame with a loud slam.

"Hermione, I'm—"

"Don't," Hermione said gently. Her voice distant from behind the door. It was like a soft whisper, and Luna felt a sharp pang right in her chest at the sound of Hermione's voice. "Not now, Luna. I'm fine. Just… give me a little time."

Luna sighed, her eyes shut tight. Tears slid to the side of her cheek. The lump in her throat bobbed as she breathed. Her exasperated breaths came out ragged. Slowly, she nodded as though Hermione could see her. "Okay. I'll be right here. I won't go anywhere. I promise—"

Another hour went by. Luna had spent the first fifteen minutes pacing, her fingers wringing together, and the next twenty wasted into decided what she needed to do, and now at forty-five minutes, she stood right in the middle of their kitchen with her baking tools scattered all over. Her face felt blotchy and dry; flour had been smudged across her cheeks; and her hands shaking as she measured the ingredients. But her own thoughts still hadn't left her alone.

It kept her company. Like a damn parasite in the back of her mind.

Throwing the dough onto the counter, she began kneading it using the heel of her hands. She pressed hard onto it. Sweat trickled over her forehead, forming beads until it slid across her face, and yet her chest rose rapidly trying to catch her breath. She didn't realize how long she had been kneading the dough until her hands ached. Her palms had already become redder but her fingers still hadn't stopped shaking. The sound of a door opening pulled her right back into the kitchen, out of her thoughts, and she looked up.

Blaise emerged from the front hall, saying merrily: "Hey. Sorry, I'm late. Couldn't leave the office early—"

With a pause, Luna hitched a breath. She saw him quirk a brow, before asking, "Did we fight? Or are we having a midnight party that I didn't know about?" Looking at the time, she realized that it was too late to be baking. Time ticked to ten minutes past midnight. Then, she glanced. The kitchen was quite a mess. No, a _mess_ was putting it mildly. _Catastrophe_ would've been more acceptable. She had been trying to bake three recipes at once that she hadn't notice the disaster her kitchen had turned into. She felt her lungs collapsing as her hands trembled.

Luna sputtered, "No, I have to—"

Blaise stepped up. His amused look replaced with a frown, and when he reached her, he saw the unfocused look in his girlfriend's eyes. How they rolled all over. Looking at everything and nothing at the same time. As his hands made contact with her shoulders, she jumped and dropped the silver bowl that sent the flour clattering all over the counter.

"What's wrong?" Blaise asked, his voice softer.

"It's all my fault. I shouldn't have said anything," Luna said. Tears fell, and Blaise placed a hand onto her cheek. His thumb grazed to wipe it off. She shook her head against his palm. "I didn't know. I didn't know that it was him. If I knew, I wouldn't have said anything. He just stood there like he didn't know her. And I even invited them to dinner—"

Luna remembered the look on his face. How he tried _not_ to look at Hermione. How he barely said anything to them. How he stood there—stiff and cool. How he held tight onto Katie's hand. How—Merlin, how could she have missed it?

"Babe, you're shaking. Why don't you breathe for a second, okay?" Blaise said; but the sound of his voice was slurring in her head. The hand on her shoulder caressed her upper arm in an assuring touch. But no, she couldn't. Not now. No, because it was her fault.

This was her fault.

Luna lifted her eyes to him, bloodshot red with tears filling the corners; and she unlatched herself from his hands. "He's getting married. To Katie Bell. I congratulated them. I was excited—and Hermione was there standing as if the world has crashed down upon her. And I didn't see it. How could I miss it?" Luna began pacing. Her feet dragging her left and right as fast as her mind switched sides. Her chest sunk as a memory flashed again—

It was the day at the clinic. Hermione hadn't asked her to come. But Luna insisted, and held tight onto her friend's hand. She listened as Hermione listed reasons why she didn't want to have it. It would have his hair, his face, his eyes—and Merlin, now Luna knew. She wiped the tears that streaked Hermione's face. She whispered hush sounds into Hermione's ears so she would calm down. She cried with Hermione once it was done. She gave Hermione strength when all hers were spent.

"Luna. Babe, please," Blaise pleaded. His words pulling her right back into the kitchen. Back into his arms. He crouched down to level his eyes with hers. Both of his hands were cupping each side of her face. "Talk to me. Don't shut me out. I'm right here—"

She nodded.

"Good," he continued. Softly, he placed a kiss on her forehead. "Let me ask the questions, and you answer me. Is that better?" She gave another nod. The warmth of his hands settled her nerves. Her eyes shut again, and heard his first question, "Who is getting married?"

She hitched another breath. Why did it have to be first question? Her brows furrowed into a deep frown as she tried to keep herself from crying; but somehow, she failed. She sobbed, and managed to choke out, "Katie Bell and…" She cursed herself for not being able to say his name outright. Her fingers crossed with each other. Her stomach rolled at the thought of his name.

How she hated him, she couldn't even begin to fathom. She hated him for this, for whatever he had done to Hermione, for giving her enough nightmares to last a lifetime, for feeding her more reasons to sell her body to different men just so she could feel like herself again, for he had been someone she trusted, and most importantly, she hated herself because she missed it.

"And…?"

"—Charlie Weasley," she exhaled. The letters flowing out of her mouth tasted like acid. She hated it. She hated him. More tears fell as she cried. "He was the father. Of the baby that Hermione had aborted three years ago. I think… I think he—he did something to her. The way she screamed that she didn't want the baby, she didn't want to care of it, she didn't want to see it… He—"

Luna struggled to speak.

"Where did you see him?" Blaise interrupted, his fingers weaving through her blonde hair.

"In Diagon Alley. He arrived with Katie Bell from Spain for their wedding on Christmas Eve," Luna said—the memories began assaulting her more. Her head ached as she felt them crashing into her walls. How could she have missed it?

"Where's Hermione?"

Their eyes met again. Tears formed as she remembered the pain in Hermione's voice when she told Luna to leave her alone. This was her fault. She did this to her friend. To her _best_ friend. How could she have _fucking_ missed it?

"In her room. She asked me to leave her alone—"

"Look, it's not your fault," Blaise said as he slid his hands down the crook of her neck, rubbing circles on the back, and his eyes not leaving hers. He looked at her carefully. "It's never your fault. You didn't know. Hermione's hurt—and it would take time to process this. But don't ever blame yourself."

His lips touched the side of her head.

Luna croaked, "She left. She disapparated, and I didn't know where—"

"She went to the office. She went to see Draco," Blaise muttered. She looked up at him in surprise. Mouth opened, she tried to say something. But nothing came out. So Blaise continued, "I saw her in the hallway. She reeked of alcohol. She was slurring. I didn't know why she came there. But she asked me if Draco was in his office. So I took her there. Then, I left. When I came back to remind Draco of our meeting, she was gone. He looked frustrated. I asked him, and all he said was that they talked. I didn't believe him, of course. I knew him well enough to know when he lied." With a pause, Blaise let out an exhausted sigh.

Luna tore his eyes from him.

"Merlin, I made a mess," she said, looking back at the kitchen.

Blaise smiled. He slipped his hands to touch hers and said, "We'll fix it. I'm here. It will be fine." He pulled her, his arms locking her in a tight embrace, and she slowly slid her own around his waist. Her head rested onto his chest—listening to it beat against her ear. She closed her eyes. Her breathing slowed. Her red eyes were still sore from all the crying.

Her thoughts shattered at the sound of a door opening. Blaise pushed Luna off, and their heads turning to the hall that led to their bedrooms. Soon, Hermione walked out. Hugging her figure was a white robe, her hair had returned to its frizzy state, and her cheeks swollen and flushed. She looked at Luna, pressing her lips into a thin line, and said quietly, "Can we talk?"

Luna looked up at Blaise. Her eyes were enough to express her question, to which Blaise nodded, mouthing, "Go. I'll fix this."

She followed Hermione back into her bedroom. Their walk was short and quiet—none of them attempting to break the silence that either of them had been surrounded with. The only sound they heard was their own heavy breathing.

Once they entered, Luna shut the door behind her. Hermione propped herself up on a windowpane, her knees folded to her chest and both of her arms pulling them closer. Bottles of different sizes littered the floor, most were empty and the others were half-full. Some other garbage were crumpled pack of cigarettes, dirty laundry, scattered shoes, and papers. Atop her dresser, it was lined with a series of orange pill bottles. Even her bed was unmade, tangled sheets and creased pillows. Her room was dark enough and musty; but Luna didn't care about any of that.

Not right now.

What she cared most about was Hermione. She looked at the woman, who had her face turned outside the window, and was breathing quietly. Luna stood. Her fingers intertwined, clinging to a bit of hope that she hadn't lost Hermione. Luna had been accustomed to being alone. Her parents failed to give her siblings; and so, Luna had grown used to her own company. She didn't have friends until Hogwarts, and even then her friends thought of her as peculiar. An odd sort. And though it didn't bother her being different, there were times that she couldn't help wishing that she had been normal.

But when she lived with Hermione, she found a friend. The only friend that mattered. She could have any friend other than Hermione; but given the chance to choose, Luna would choose Hermione again. And again. To Hermione, the term _friends_ had been nothing but false hopes and broken promises, and so she stopped believing that it even existed in the first place; but to Luna, she had always seen Hermione as one. It didn't matter if Hermione hated that word because for Luna, Hermione was her best friend.

When Luna's father died, Hermione gripped onto Luna's hand and said, laced with nonchalance: " _We'll figure it out._ " The same words that she had told Hermione when she found out that she was pregnant, and even if her tone was dripping with uncertainty, Luna still believed her. Hermione smiled, as though despite the all the savagery, the world was still shooting rainbows through the skies. Hermione told her sometimes half-truths and full-pledge lies without so much of a blink that it was so damn easy for Luna to slow her breathing. Hermione had been there at her worst, and stayed; and the least that Luna could do was be there for Hermione at her own worst.

If that wasn't what friends were, Luna didn't know what else they were.

"Hermione, I'm sorry—"

Hermione snapped her head back. Her face shadowed by the dim light coming from the window. Luna failed to see her face, and all she could do was watch as Hermione stood. Hermione moved from the window. Soon Luna saw the lining of her face, and a little while later, the colors flooded her face. Luna saw how red her face was. How tired her eyes were. How stripped she felt as though everything in her body had been peeled off. And Luna tried her best not to break too.

"He stood there. He stood there, acting like I wasn't there. He looked at me like he didn't remember. Like he had done nothing wrong. He held onto her like he cleaned his own hands from whatever he did to me by holding her hand," Hermione said, her voice filled with anger and pain. Something that Luna had been dreading to hear for three years.

Luna watched her friend further, waiting, and a little later, she heard, "It was at the Victory Party after the war. I was packing up in the dormitory because I was leaving for Australia the next day. To return the memories I took away from my parents. Then he just came in. I didn't even hear him. God, I remembered how he smelled like alcohol. He told me how I looked so _fucking_ pretty, and how much he wanted me, but he couldn't because Ron—" A pause. She swallowed, "—because I was with Ron. He touched my face. I tried to tell him to stop but he wouldn't. Then he grabbed me. His arms were around me so fast that the next thing I knew I was landing on the ground. I cried, and cried, and begged him to stop—but he… he didn't."

Hermione faced Luna. Her face soaked into tears again. Her lips were trembling as she tried to talk. Luna sighed, her eyes heavy from trying not to cry too. She needed to be strong for Hermione. Stronger, if Hermione couldn't. "You don't have to tell me, Hermione. I know. And I'm so sorry that I didn't see it," Luna managed to say—even if her own voice sounded like glass grating against each other.

"No, I need to. You've been here since the beginning. I can't… I have to. You need to know—" Hermione faltered. She shut her eyes. "So I left the next day. I couldn't take it to see Harry or Ron after that. I was so ashamed. I was guilty because I couldn't fight him off. But I tried. I tried really hard. I couldn't look at Ron because all I see is him. His hair, his freckles, his fucking face. Ron was furious. He couldn't understand. His face was so red, and I couldn't help but feel like I broke his heart. And I did… I know I did. I _loved_ him, but I couldn't stay because then if I did, I would just blame him for simply being related to _that…_ " Hermione choked a sob before forcing herself to continue, "Even Harry tried to stop me. He held onto me before I disapparated; and I almost took him with me. But… I had to leave because they reminded me so much of him. Everything reminded me so much of him—"

Luna took a step forward. Hermione stood there stiff while her shoulder shook as she sobbed. Luna placed her hands onto Hermione's shoulders, and even if Hermione seemed to freeze under her touch, Hermione didn't remove her hands. Hermione fell onto the pile of clothes scattered on her floor. Luna knelt too, her arms wrapping around her friend. Luna didn't know how long she sat with Hermione in her arms. Tears soaked her shirt, but it didn't matter at all. Luna gently rubbed a hand over Hermione's arm with a hush, trying to fight her own tears back as she tried to be strong for Hermione.

Her sobs turned into wails. She spoke, but Luna failed to recognize some of her words. "I can't _fucking_ feel anything, Luna. All I've done for three years is _be numb_. Go screw some stranger I met in some bar. Drink some more. Smoke until my lungs gave out. I'm popping four pills at once to keep myself from breaking. But it doesn't fucking stop hurting. I'm so dirty, Luna. I'm so fucking disgusting. Those men—oh God, I'm so… I'm so sorry—"

Luna shook her head. She held tighter to her friend and muttered, "No. I don't care if you shagged your way through the European continent. It will be fine. You had to do what you needed to survive, and you did. You survived. That's what matters."

Silence flooded the room. Muffled sobs were the only thing that could be heard, and hearing it was enough for either of them. None of them needed to say anything more.

"Tell Daphne I'm sorry," Hermione whispered—after a while.

"What for?"

"For six months ago."

Yes, she remembered. That night had been etched into her brain like a scar that wouldn't fade. It had been that evening when Daphne Greengrass came in—almost out of breath—as she dragged both herself and Hermione across the hall of her apartment building. Hermione slurred, unable to stand on her own, and her legs wobbly. She wondered how Daphne had managed to carry Hermione from the apparition point to their flat, which was three blocks in between, but before she could ask, Daphne began to explain how she found Hermione; and as soon as Hermione had sobered up, she started hurling insults at Daphne for being such a nosy bitch. " _You're not the one they're trying to shag! So why are you sticking your damn nose where it doesn't belong?_ " Luna remembered the words hanging in the air for hours after Hermione turned to her heel and left. The next day, Daphne set an appointment with a Muggle psychiatrist for Hermione because even if Daphne was too proud to admit, she cared enough for Hermione.

Like how Luna cared.

"She already forgave you," Luna said, pressing a kiss onto her forehead. Hermione softly curled closer to Luna. Luna leaned her back onto the side of Hermione's bed. Her eyes shut. Her own breathing unsteady between her hiccups and sighs. Hermione had stopped trembling in Luna's embrace, but neither of them moved.

"We're all messed-up, Hermione. Blaise, too—though he wouldn't admit it. Even Draco," Luna said, in a hushed tone. She breathed in Hermione's hair, and it smelled like smoke and sweat, but even then, Luna couldn't help but smile.

Hermione tightened her arms around Luna's waist and mumbled, "I went to Malfoy's office after I left. I humiliated him. I humiliated _myself_."

"I know. But he won't care. He's not heartless, Hermione. He knows how to forgive," Luna assured. She didn't know Draco enough; but the way he looked at Hermione over dinner made an impression to Luna that somehow he wasn't half as bad as everyone thought he was. Sometimes, she thought that he was better than most. Then she said again, "We'll figure it out. Like we always do."

Once Hermione had managed to muffle her sobs into tiny sighs, she slowly pulled herself from Hermione. She helped Hermione onto the bed, gathering the tangled sheets to cover Hermione's legs, and kissed her forehead again before walking out.

Blaise had finished cleaning the kitchen by the time Luna left Hermione's bedroom. He laid onto the couch with an arm propped over his eyes. Luna watched as his chest rose and fell as a result of his breathing, and she smiled. She walked, and placed a kiss onto his forehead. Stirring, he removed his arm and stared wide-eyed at Luna before pulling himself up.

Blaise said, his voice hoarse, "Hey. Is everything okay?"

Luna nodded. She sighed before smiling again, "She's okay. She'll be fine." Simple words. She didn't need to explain to him everything because with the look she gave him, it explained enough. He nodded in understanding. She added, "She told me about Draco, you know. But she didn't explain."

Blaise looked at Luna once more. A smile twitched into the corners of his lips before curving it fully into a grin. He looked forward, and down to his thighs, before taking Luna's hand into his. His hands felt warm around hers. "He's not a bad person. But he wasn't the person who openly expressed his thoughts. No, his father instilled in him that he shouldn't get emotionally attached over petty things. So when he feels things, he usually gets confused. Then it turns into anger because he didn't know how to deal with it. He's not a bad person—"

She pressed a hand onto his lips, silencing him, and said, "I know. I can see it."

Blaise smiled.

"Should we sleep?" Luna asked, resting her head against Blaise's shoulder. He pressed a kiss onto her ear before nodding. She felt his head move; so she lifted her head again. Luna leaned, planting a kiss over his lips before saying, "Come on. Off to bed. It's late—"

Tugging his hand, she pulled him toward the bedroom.

* * *

 _A/N: To those who have read the first one that I posted, I re-posted this chapter because I found some mistakes regarding the story in relation to Chapter 8. To those who have just read this, well, here you are. I just fixed and added some things. But plot's still the same. Anyway, to clarify: this chapter is set **before** the events of Chapter 8. I posted Draco's perspective first because I want the big revelation to be in his point of view. So what did you think of Luna and Blaise? Thanks to my awesome beta, JularaVon! And as always, to my ever supportive readers! Since I added some things, there might be a few more mistakes so apologies for that. 'Til next time. _


	12. Chapter Ten

**Chapter Ten**

 **EVERYTHING HAS CHANGED**

 _November 28, 2001_

Draco _hated_ Wednesdays. Or any day that particularly in which his attendance is a requirement, lest the foundation of his company collapses. Or so Blaise used to dramatically say.

Leaning back, he shut his eyes. He allowed the noise to fill his senses. His fingers tapping covertly over the folder that had been laid across the table he shared with fifteen other members of his board, composed of men twice Draco's age. Blaise Zabini stood at the front, the sound of his discussion on marketing strategies fading in Draco's ears until it was nothing but a distant haze in the back of his mind.

He let his mind afloat with thoughts. His fingers had shifted to touch the feathered quill rested at the upper right corner of folder, feeling the soft texture under his skin, and running down the hardened stem. After a while, he went back to the breakfast he had shared with his mother earlier this morning before he left for work. The conversation between him and his mother was rather insouciant. A few questions matched with brief, one-worded answers.

He wasn't sure what made him think of that moment. But as he sat, he watched his mother take little bites and talk casually. Knowing his mother, he knew that his mother was never casual with anyone except him. She built a protective wall between her and the world. She smiled whenever she faced the public; but just as she could read Draco like a transparent glass, Draco could see behind her saddened smiles. His mother tried to be as casual as she could to assure him—and perhaps, herself too—that everything was better.

That everything has changed.

He had lived in fear while a madman resided in what used to be their home. His mother lived through her years abiding traditions in fear that she might be burned off the tapestry like her estranged sister, Andromeda. He had asked his mother once if she planned to reconnect with her sister, but his mother only flashed him a painful smile. Her smile conveyed a meaning that he knew all too well but not at all. She wanted to, but fear always crippled them both.

It was a strong motivator, yet so deadly enough.

"Draco?" His name echoed, shattering the thoughts that his mind had drifted into, and his head raised to meet the eyes that had been watching him for Merlin-knows how long. Blaise still stood at the front with his hands buried inside his pockets, a smug look on his face that Draco wanted so much to wipe off. Blaise asked, "Any thoughts?"

With an elbow propped over the armrest, he let his head rest over his palm and sent Blaise a knowing look. Blaise raised his head before turning back to the rest of the board members. "Well, I guess that's it. I shall send Draco's decision through a memo. I'm sure he needs a few more hours to think about it. It's a complex strategy. For now, meeting is adjourned," Blaise said, picking up his own folder. The board members began to gather their things and leave the conference room.

Draco sighed. His head throbbed, and he pressed a finger against his temple. It didn't stop. Though Draco wasn't looking, he could feel Blaise's eyes boring a hole through his head, and with a quiet snicker, he said, "If you have something to say, say it now—"

Blaise chuckled, shaking his head. Silence stretched between the two men, the distance occupied with such heaviness that made Draco's chest swell in frustration, and after a while, he finally heard, "Send me that memo if you've decided, Draco. I'll be in my office." Blaise left at the turn of his heel without looking back, cradling a few folders in his arm.

Solitude wrapped around him for a few more minutes. He sat there, listening to the steadiness of his own breathing while his fingers continued to drum. When he finally decided to leave, Draco felt his legs frigid for how long he sat there. He exited the conference room and found himself strolling along a long hallway. He nodded to acknowledge some employees who greeted him as he walked by. Reaching his office, he shut the door behind him quickly and headed straight to his liquor cabinet.

He poured whiskey into an empty glass while he tried not to remember. This had been where Granger had pushed him. He remembered how he had wanted ever since that day to push her back to his desk and fuck her senseless—and he groaned. The guttural sound leaving his throat reverberated into his office. Even the faint stench of spilled whiskey that had drenched the rug under his feet never left, always lingering to trigger his shame. He hadn't forgotten yet, and how he wished he could simply turn his head and pretend not to know.

It was her secret. And he was the only one who knew.

The glass touched his lips, and soon the taste burned through his throat. It cascaded down underneath his chest, warm and bitter tasting, until the rest of his concerns drown in alcohol. Like Granger, he drunk to forget the atrocities life has thrown at him. To numb the pain. His pain. His mother's pain. Granger's pain. Even if it lasts for only five minutes or an hour.

Draco nearly finished his glass when he heard a soft rapping on his office door. He raised his head once it opened, seeing his secretary's head peek in and a tight lipped smiled on her face while she said, "There is a Daphne Greengrass here to see you, Mr. Malfoy."

He frowned while he set his glass down. He wondered what her reasons would've been to come here. Was she here because of Granger? He stopped his thoughts before he could think further. His secretary waited for a response, head still hanging by the door, and he nodded, saying quite audibly, "Let her in, then. And bring some tea."

The secretary nodded, curtly. As Draco turned, she was gone at the sound of the door closing.

He began shifting through the documents that piled on his desk when he heard the door opening once more, and a small blonde woman walking in. Her footsteps were timid, careful enough not to make too much of a noise. She wore black robes, and as she slipped them off, he noticed that she wore a tight, knee-length skirt matched with a white long sleeves blouse. She placed the robe on the length of her forearm before she looked forward to Draco.

Their eyes locked. Before silence could linger longer, Draco broke it and mumbled, "Well, I'll say that this is a lovely surprise." He straightened. His hands pushing into his pockets, and he realized that his palms sweated as soon as he closed them into a fist.

Daphne flashed a smile, nodding. She said, "I hope I'm not intruding or anything."

"No. Not at all," Draco said. He took his empty glass and poured another batch of whiskey. "I just got out of an incredibly boring meeting. So please, your visit is a much needed entertainment." _And distraction_ , he mentally noted.

She let out a soft chuckle. He smirked.

"I ordered some tea. But if you'll have something stronger, I can offer you whiskey," Draco said. Around his fingers, the glass almost slipped as he rolled it with his hand. The drink swirling smooth as an unconscious reaction to his hand's movements. He tried not to fidget. He needed to control himself, lest he might explode.

Daphne shook her head, saying, "No. Don't bother. I won't be staying long, anyway."

Draco nodded. He took a long sip from his drink and waited. What was he waiting for? He wasn't certain. But his heartbeat went on in sync with the numbers counting in his head. He searched his mind for something he could say, and before he could say anything, Daphne began: "I know that Hermione came to see you on the 24th. I also know that she said some things. A lot of things, I imagine. Must be quite a shock. I mean, I certainly am."

He looked away. He knew that at some point that the events of that day would haunt him again, but Draco hadn't expected it to be so soon. He felt his fingers tighten around the glass he was holding. His breathing quickened, and he struggled not to hold his breath.

Then he asked, "Did she tell you what happened?"

"No, she didn't. Luna did since she was the only one who talked to Hermione. And from what Luna told me, all she said was that she humiliated you. Herself too," Daphne explained. She still stood there. And he thought about inviting her to sit down, but she didn't look as if she wanted to sit down.

"Did you know? When you came to talk to me at the tea party?"

"No. I hadn't talked to Luna yet at the time," Daphne said, shaking her head. Both of them dreaded the silence that kept threatening to fill the distance between them. Neither imagined that this conversation would be too hard to express. They were dragged into the pit where Granger had long fallen into. He didn't know if he came on his will, but it didn't matter because he was here.

Draco forced the whiskey down his throat again. He needed more alcohol to keep this conversation going, and he eyed the nearly empty bottle sitting on his cabinet.

Daphne let out a sigh and said, "Look, Draco. I'm not stupid, and I'm not here to goad you into telling me anything that happened that day—"

He faced her, sharper than he had intended to with a frown, "Then why are you here?"

"Because I already know. Luna knows. I know that there is something going on between you and Hermione, and we could only take a guess, but we're inclined to think that our guess is correct," Daphne replied, with such force in her voice as if she hadn't wanted to say that but needed to.

Draco hissed at the taste of whiskey in his mouth. He spat, "Why are you telling me this, then? Aren't you supposed to tell Granger to stay the hell away from me after what I did to Astoria?" The image of Astoria leaving resurfaced in his mind again, searing like a flaming brand. He winced at his own thought. "Or are you here to tell me that?"

Daphne sighed. Her shoulders seemed to relax. "You and Astoria were never going to work, Draco. You, of all people, know that. I tried to tell her that. And I'm not saying that because you didn't love her. But because… you just aren't. You try, but in a lot of case, trying is not enough if it isn't meant to be," Daphne said, exasperatedly.

He snorted.

No, he loved Astoria—at least, for a short time. He didn't know what had changed in their relationship. He was happy for a while; but somehow, he lost it. He lost her. Pushing away his thoughts of Astoria, he looked back at Daphne and arched an eyebrow.

"Please, Daphne. I really hope you're not lecturing about destiny," he retorted, accompanied with the roll of his eyes.

"No, that's not what I'm saying. What I meant is that you are just two different people with different goals and different perspectives. It doesn't fit. You don't fit," she said, and paused to breathe. He realized she too had difficulty breathing in this conversation. She shook her head slightly before continuing, "And to get back to your original question, I'm not going to tell Hermione to stay away from you. Or you from her."

"Stupid idea, really," Draco said. "Why not?"

"Because believe it or not, she has had enough of having someone tell her what to do," Daphne said. Draco frowned—no, Granger has been doing what she wanted to do for three years. She didn't listen to anybody. He opened his mouth to say but Daphne cut him off, "She doesn't have control over her life, and so everybody takes advantage of that. She thinks that she has control when she fucks someone, but no because it was her who gives control to them. To control her. Again, and again, and again." She stopped again. Her feet tapped onto the carpet that was laid across his office while she tried to find the words to say. She looked away from him; but Draco only stared at her.

"I don't know what happened on the 24th, Draco, and I'm not forcing you to tell me because I know that you aren't someone who talks about these things. Ironically, you and Hermione are more similar than you let on. My point is… you made her talk. You triggered her into finally exploding when none of us—not even Luna—could," Daphne said. Her words burning through Draco like a tattoo. Each syllable echoing in his head like a broken record, and no matter how he tried to push it away, he failed.

"I'm not sure what I did, really."

"It doesn't matter how you did it. What matters is she talked, Draco. For the first time in three years," she stressed. In her eyes, he saw pain flashing in them as she blinked back her tears away. He wondered what made her so affected by Granger. Were they friends? _Best_ friends? Merlin, he didn't know. Granger didn't have friends; but how Daphne acted, he would assume that Daphne treated her as such.

She continued, "Did you know that she had gotten pregnant three years ago? Luna told me that she sat in the bathroom for hours, crying, while holding a pregnancy stick. Luna came with her to an abortion clinic to get rid of the baby, and Hermione cried the whole time because the baby would look exactly like Charlie fucking Weasley with all his red hair and freckles. No one knew who the father was at that time; not until they saw him with his fiancée in Diagon Alley, announcing that they're getting married, and even invited them to the damn wedding. Hermione didn't tell her then, no. But when Luna saw her, she realized. She began to put the pieces together, and somehow it all made sense—"

By the time Daphne had finished, tears had fallen down her cheeks. The rise and fall of her chest quickened as she turned like she didn't know where she would go. Suddenly, Draco felt the swell in his chest enlarging at that revelation, and he too didn't know where he would go. What he would do. Because the pain that Granger had been feeling for three years, no—it surpassed the amount of pain he had felt in all of his life.

He looked away. He exhaled harder, deeper.

"Why are you telling me this, Daphne? What's the point?" Draco asked, trying to breathe slowly.

Rage boiled in his skin, and for what reason, he wasn't sure. A mixture of different emotions surged inside him until he felt nothing but confusion. He felt so many things at once that he got lost in trying to find the pattern. He gripped tighter onto the glass in his hand, and even tighter, it would break under his grasp; so he set it down before it shattered to pieces.

He balled his hands into a fist before burying it deep into his pockets. He knew that his hands were shaking violently, but he couldn't let Daphne see it. He couldn't let anyone see that he cared. Because he wasn't a person who cared. He was selfish, and arrogant, and an arsehole—but not someone who cared. He sighed, and asked, "What happened six months ago?"

That question had long been bothering him since Blaise mentioned it.

Draco watched the woman in front of him raise her head to meet his eyes. Tears glistening against the light in his office; but her hardened look had turned into something softer before she said, "Draco… I—I can't tell you. I—"

"Why?"

"Because it's not mine to tell," Daphne breathed.

He fought the urge to punch something. He tried to control his anger around his fists; but it crawled over to his legs that his muscles flexed in reaction to it. "But you saw something, did you?" He asked, and when he looked again at her, she nodded without looking away.

"Tell me," Draco said—almost as if he was begging her. His own voice croaked at his words, and he cursed himself inwardly for whatever was happening to him.

"Why?" It was Daphne's turn to question him. Why, indeed—he didn't know. He had been rationalizing this whole situation, trying to make sense of what was happening, but to no avail, he couldn't.

"Because whatever you came here for, whatever you need to ask of me, I need to know," Draco said, quietly while he looked away. He feared that if she saw him, his eyes, she would know too much. She would know that he cared, and he wouldn't be able to answer her why.

She closed her eyes. Sniffing, she began, "I saw a woman. Broken beyond repair. I didn't really expect to run into her at the muggle party. I was with a few of my workmates at the Quibbler. Luna couldn't make it because Blaise was coming over to her flat." She paused, swallowing. More tears fell. "When I was looking for the bathroom, I mistakenly opened a door and found that it was a bedroom. There were four men, looming over a half-dressed woman on the bed. One shouted at another that he didn't lock the door. But my eyes were focused on the woman. I didn't recognize her at first because her hair was dark, and I didn't know her as someone who dressed that way. Her top was unbuttoned, her skirt was hoisted up her waist, and she was unconscious. Completely wasted. And I realized that I couldn't just leave her there, no matter if she was some stupid muggle girl, and so I dragged her out of there after I hexed those men. I realized it was her when her hair got away from her face; and Merlin, I wanted to cry when I saw her.

"I apparated us to the nearest apparition point in their apartment; but that was three blocks away, so I had to drag her down the sidewalk for ten _bloody_ minutes. Luna let us in, and Blaise left when Luna asked him to. I told her what I saw, and I was crying the whole time. Once Hermione sobered up, she started screaming at me for sticking my nose into her business. I told her what those men were planning to do with her, and what terrified me the most was that she didn't care. She wasn't scared of that happening; in fact, she was expecting it. She was welcoming it…" Daphne stopped to inhale deeply. Then a shaky breath escaped her mouth before she continued, "I realized that I couldn't simply bloody let her be, so I set her up with a Muggle psychiatrist to help her."

Daphne closed her mouth, her words were left hanging in the air that they both breathed. Draco turned to pour himself the last of his whiskey. He inhaled the scent, but he didn't remember the first time he drunk whiskey but that moment that Granger had pushed him into this cabinet. He took a sip before facing her again, and Daphne stood firmly.

Her hands clasped in front of her. Her posture straight, even if Draco knew that she looked almost as close to caving and falling onto his floor for everything she had told him. "Did it help?" Draco asked, savoring aftertaste of whiskey in his mouth.

Daphne shook her head, and said, "No. Not really. Hermione is… she's too tough. She has gotten too hard to break that I don't think there's anything left in her to fight for anymore. She's breaking, and I know that she's scared."

"What are you asking me for, Daphne?"

Daphne pressed her lips into a thin line before she sighed, saying, "Look after her."

His urge to laugh was subsiding by his urge to agree. He bit his tongue before he could say anything idiotic, and he realized that he was biting his tongue too hard that he almost tasted blood in his mouth, drowning in the remaining taste of whiskey.

He snickered, "You do realize that she wouldn't want this. She doesn't do this, Daphne, and you knowing her longer than I do, I know that you know I'm right."

"That was before she talked," Daphne insisted.

"What does it matter if she talked or not?"

"It changes _everything_ , Draco," Daphne said, sounding as if exhaustion has taken a toll on her. She looked at him, eyes pleading. "She is learning to talk to somebody. She is finally allowing someone to see through her. To know her thoughts. And even if I wanted to be that person, Luna insisted that you are the better choice; and believe me that I thought it was the most ridiculous idea I have ever heard, but now, I can see why."

His frown deepened, "What do you mean?"

His chest rumbled. He feared her answer, because somehow in the crevices of his rational consciousness, he knew what she was talking about. Draco didn't want to admit it; but seeing Daphne, he knew. And he too was scared.

"Do I really need to spell it out for you?" She asked, raising an eyebrow. "Look in the mirror and see. You care for her, Draco, and I know that you know it."

He felt a lump in his throat. He tried to swallow, but it didn't leave.

Draco looked away again, and feigned innocence, "I have no idea what you're talking about, Daph." Turning back, he heard a huff from her.

"Fine. Deny it all you want, Draco. Whatever," Daphne said, sternly. He looked at her from the corner of his eye. She rolled her eyes and had her arms crossed over her chest. "Just give her a chance, okay? She's not a bad person for trying to survive. And I know that you know what that's like."

Snapping his head in her direction, he saw the truth in her eyes. Almost too raw.

None of them had talked about the war. Not even the traumas that they had faced during those times, and how they were forced to do unspeakable things in order to survive. They learned all about self-preservation at such a young age without anyone helping them because they were on the dark side. Because no one really believed that they too could feel helpless and trapped. But as he looked at Daphne, he saw that she too had nightmares about it.

They were alone. All on their own.

He tried his best not to remember the war. But how people looked at him reminded him of which side he was on. That he was Marked like the rest of that madman's followers. Even if the war had been over, the discrimination still divided them; and the only difference was that he was the one being discriminated. For being a Death Eater.

For surviving.

He knew. Indeed, he knew what Daphne was talking about. He knew what that's like because he had been living in that same cycle for not only three years. But almost his entire life. His upbringing led him to make such mistakes; and how he wished he had the courage to fight against it.

" _Kill Dumbledore. Or your mother suffers_ ," Voldemort had once said. He pushed that thought away—far, far away into the depths of his mind. But soon, Lucius' voice echoed like the follower he was, saying, " _The Dark Lord is not bluffing, Draco. Do this, and you will be ranked as one of his high officers. You will give our family honor_ —"

He snorted at that.

Daphne still stood there. She shifted before saying, "I should go. I'll see you around, Draco." He nodded, and watched as she left his office without another word.

Draco was left standing alone in the middle of his office with an empty glass in his hand. He put the glass onto his mouth again and tipped his head back, letting the last drop of whiskey douse his mouth even for a little, and he swallowed it. He set it right back onto his desk. Circling around it, he found himself falling onto his chair. His back rested against the seat, and his eyes closing.

Once again, his senses heightened. He listened to the noise made by the loud drumming of his chest. His unsteady breathing. His foot tapping on the floor. His clothes shuffling in his movements. His thoughts almost too loud for him to hear.

Then he saw Granger. It was that night he saw her at the front of the hotel where he was having dinner with his mother. Her hair slowly floating in air as the wind blew her way. Her smile tainted. Her shoulders stiff—whether from the cold or the situation, he didn't know. The way her lips closed around the end of her cigarette. The way her mouth opened as she talked. The glint in her eyes, and now he knew what was hiding behind those dark mascara eyes.

Daphne was right. There was no point in denying it—he _cared_ for her.

* * *

 _A/N: Let's say that I am eager to update. Because even I am eager to know what happens next in the story, and of course, I am looking forward to your responses. Your reviews are a huge motivator for me to keep going. Well, deep gratitude to my amazing beta, JularaVon, as always. And to my readers, thank you. 'Til next time, then._


	13. Chapter Eleven

**Chapter Eleven**

 **ARE WE THERE YET?**

 _November 30, 2001_

Closing the lid, it was the third box that she had filled with empty liquor bottles. It didn't fill all the spaces, but was occupied by the crumpled packets of cigarette that had once littered her floor. The box was heavy and full, weighing on Hermione's arms as she carried it over to the rest of the boxes she had packed. She took another bag, hurried over to her dresser, and with a sweep of her arm, all the orange pill bottles that were lined next to her set of make-ups fell into the bottom of the bag.

This morning, the first time she woke up sober, she realized how dirty her room was. She glanced, and all she could see was dust and dirty laundry with the strong odor of spilled alcohol somewhere in the corner of this room. The ashtray that sat on her nightstand was overflowing with cigarette butts and ashes of what she had been smoking for the night, or longer. Her bedspreads hadn't been changed in months. The drapes hanging by her window had been the one she hung when she first moved in. So, Hermione took a quick bath before deciding to clean her room.

Among the things that Hermione found were some of her old books hidden under her bed long forgotten along with who she used to be, and she sat on the dusty floor while she scanned the worn-out pages. With nights spent in different bars and in different beds, she hadn't had the time to read. She used to love reading because it was an escape; but she found a better escape in alcohol and burnt cigarettes. She rose from the floor and placed the books on the dresser where the orange pill bottles used to be.

She cleared the things hanging on the wall, refolding her clothes and separating it from the dirty ones, and replacing her old bed covers and pillowcases. She rearranged the furniture in her room. She organized her things neatly over where she thought they belonged to. Afterwards, she stood in the middle of her room, looking around if she missed a spot, and realized that the walls looked so mundane. Even the floor seemed plain without all the dirty laundry scattered as if it was an abstract art splayed in random.

Walking to the window, she realized that the sun had nearly set. The last ray of afternoon sunshine beaming through the spaces between buildings in London. It touched Hermione's cheeks as she looked out the window, and a touch of warmth filled her for a second. The feeling lasted until Hermione turned back to her door upon hearing a soft knock, and the faint creaking of hinges, followed by Luna coming in.

Luna flashed a tight lipped smile. Most of her wavy hair had been gathered into a loose bun, the rest loose at the side of her face. She smelled of rosemary, toasted crusts, and lemons. "Hi," Luna mumbled, standing right where she entered.

"Hi," Hermione replied, with a breath.

"How are you?"

Hermione shifted her gaze onto the pile of boxes that she had filled with trash. Trash that had been once her escape from this nightmare called reality. But she smiled, and turned back to Luna, who waited for an answer, saying, "Better. I cleaned my room. I hadn't realized that it was so… messy."

The blonde chuckled.

"I can see that," Luna said. "That's good. I see you found the books I gave you over Christmas." Hermione followed Luna's eyes toward the books sitting at her desk. She didn't remember receiving them, in fact, or perhaps she was too drunk to remember.

"Yeah. Well, they've been sitting under the bed for a while," Hermione said.

"Have you read them yet?"

"No," Hermione shook her head slowly. Her fingers fiddled with each other's tips, and all of a sudden, she could feel that her mouth had gone dry. She itched for a smoke. Or a drink. Or something. But Hermione pushed her urges to the tips of her fingers as if she washed her hands off all the dirt she had been touching for three years. "But, I might tonight if I'm not tired yet," she continued, and her friend's smile grew wider at that.

"Good," Luna said—almost beaming. "Any plans tomorrow?"

Hermione shrugged. She looked around the room, and thought of buying some paint to recolor the walls or new furniture. "Diagon Alley, I think. I need some paint or new wallpapers. My walls look so… dull. I didn't realize that I've looking at this boring color for three years. If I hadn't been so wasted, I would've realized it sooner—"

Her voice faltered. When she talked, her throat used to burn lightly as if her body refused to obey what her mind wanted to do; but now without a drop of alcohol for six days, her throat was on fire. It was too painful to talk, and she would've resorted to drinking again, drowning her thoughts until she couldn't think anymore—but Hermione fought how her pulse elevated in each minute she ignored her urges.

She avoided talking for three years. She thought that if she didn't talk, she would forget it. That her memories would be erased along with history; but no, she was trapped. She thought that if she ignored it long enough, it would go away. It didn't, however. It stayed like a chain around her neck, and no matter how far she ran, it would always follow her. Her psychiatrist might be right. There was no forgetting, and all she could do was accept that it happened. She needed to accept that that night happened, that he happened, that she happened.

And there were consequences.

Luna asked, "Do you want me to go with you?"

Looking at the blonde, Hermione remembered the first day they met after the war. It hadn't been a welcoming incident after Hermione gathered her strength to pull the blonde's arms from around her. Luna staggered back in shock as she hit the wall quite hard. Hermione wished she saw anger in Luna's eyes, and perhaps she would know what she needed to do, but what she saw was anything but anger. The next day, Hermione apologized. Luna only smiled, gave her a cup of tea, and offered to share a flat with her.

Hermione gave Luna a thousand reasons to be angry at her; but here she still was, standing in front of her, wearing a flour-covered apron, loose hair and all, with a positive smile on her face, and Hermione wished that Luna would've left before she had been dragged into this shithole. But, it was too late.

"We can shop dresses tomorrow for the Christmas Ball," Luna added.

Right. She had almost forgotten about that. Malfoy had so kindly invited her to attend his mother's Christmas Ball, and for whatever reason, she didn't know. Her last visit at the Malfoy Manor was a bad dream; but she would've accepted Bellatrix's Cruciatus curse any day than _that_ night at the dormitory. She didn't have any form of relationship with Bellatrix, she didn't befriend her, she didn't trust her; but she and _him_ , they would've been in-laws if she had married Ron. She pushed her thoughts away. How she could think about him in everything, she didn't know; but Hermione knew that she needed to stop.

Finally, Hermione nodded as she looked back at Luna.

"Good. Dinner will be ready in five minutes," Luna said as she left, followed by the door shutting behind her with a soft click. Hermione stood in complete silence in her bedroom again.

Slowly, the last bit of sunlight beaming right through her window had faded into nothing but a fading glow at the edge of her windowpane. She stretched a hand until her fingertips reached the dying warmth. Soon, the light left her room and allowed a greater shade of shadow to cover Hermione. Like a blanket draped over her bare shoulders that didn't seem enough to keep her from the cold.

She turned to the right. Eyes landing directly onto the mirror attached to the closet door, and realized that she was covered in dirt. Her hair began to curl again, drier and frizzier than it usually was, and the tips fell on the large patch of skin exposed from the neckline of her shirt. Cheeks paler, her lips flaking off, and her eyes a little darker. She sighed before she pulled out a new baggy shirt and a pair of jeans comfortable enough for her to sleep in tonight. She changed quickly; and just as she pulled the waistband of her jeans up, Luna called over that dinner was ready.

Hermione stepped onto the hall. For a second, the light coming right from the living room blinded her. It made her squint lightly but she continued to walk toward the kitchen. Her eyes adjusted to the light; soon, as she reached the kitchen, Luna came around with a casserole in both of her hands with a bright smile on her face. She brought the pot to the dining table where Blaise was standing with one hand deep in his pocket and the other leaning against the table.

Blaise tilted his head up, smirking, "I hope you don't mind me joining you for dinner."

Hermione shook her head. The distance between her and the dining table closed as she walked forward a few steps. As the pot landed at the middle, they all sat around with Luna squished between both Blaise and Hermione. The conversation during dinner was casual. Blaise talked about the company. Luna told them about her work for the Quibbler. Hermione only sat in silence as she took little bites into her mouth, letting the taste melt into her mouth, and listening.

The food didn't replace the burning flavor of alcohol in her mouth that she missed, but it was enough. She forced it down her stomach, and with every bite, it felt like stones grating on the walls of her throat. Hermione took occasional sips of her orange juice. Blaise began talking about his trip to Vienna around after New Year's when a knock came from the front door. Luna rose from her seat and walked over to open the door, and shortly she came back with Draco Malfoy following behind her.

She saw him. But he saw her first. She noticed that his pale blond hair had been pushed back. His neatly-tailored suit was straightened without crease. His jaw tensed, clenching as he stood there. His fingers wrapped around an uncapped bottle of wine. He looked almost the same as she had known him. But the only difference was the things that happened in between. They were both two ends of a long line. Everything else was laid out in the middle, waiting to be discovered by anyone other than them.

In a flash, she started to remember the last time they met. How hard she pushed him against his liquor cabinet and managed to drag his boxers down in a matter of minutes. How she cried out in so much pain in front of him. How he looked at her with fear in his eyes, something that he rarely showed to anyone. How she ran until her feet ached. How she fucked away all her anger in different men in the span of five hours.

Malfoy looked at her. She didn't know how he felt. She couldn't read him—not like how she could easily read other men. Their body language oozing with desire; but not him. He looked pleasant, and almost too painfully formal toward her that she couldn't register his thoughts. His feelings. He did things the way she did. Hiding, masking her emotions layers upon layers until no one could read her anymore. And the only thing she saw was the truth.

He was like her. Hiding in plain sight.

When Luna made a happy sound, Hermione looked away. She didn't look back when Malfoy said, "I, um, brought wine."

Her ears ringing. It pierced deep through the tunnels in her head until all she could hear was blood rushing through her veins. She felt her muscles in her chest tightened with every breath she took, and the air in her lungs might've gotten lost in its way down through her body as she breathed shallowly. No, there still wasn't enough air.

"Let me get you a plate," Luna muttered. She rushed back into the kitchen, took a plate, and placed it next to Hermione's. Luna passed a glance at Hermione's direction before smiling faintly. "And glasses," Luna continued before reaching for four empty glasses. Uncorking the wine, she poured it over the glasses. Hermione felt her own mouth water as Luna filled Malfoy's glass with it, and soon Luna reached over to pour her one, she gently pushed the neck of the bottle away from her glass before pressing her lips into a thin smile. They both shared a look, and Luna sat again.

Dinner was as ordinary as it could be. Blaise, Luna, and Malfoy enjoyed their meal over casual conversations while Hermione sat back, listening. Their forks clattering against the plates. Glasses clinking as they hit the table. Soft laughter accompanied with soft voices talking. The sounds passed Hermione's senses as she sat there, legs crossed, and pulling her baggy shirt tighter. It was too big for her; but somehow, it was what she needed right now.

Afterwards, Hermione pushed her chair back. The legs scratching against the floorboards with a loud echo, causing the three other people to look up at hers. Luna frowned, concern printed all over her face. Hermione forced a smile before saying, "Excuse me. I need some air." Not waiting for a response, she walked off from the table toward the front hall. She didn't hear a noise behind her; but she knew, she felt, that everyone was watching her.

Hermione felt the wind blow against her cheeks as she opened the rooftop door. Chill immediately made its way down her spine until it reached the tips of fingers and toes. She had forgotten to bring a blanket or a thicker sweater, but going down meant that she had to meet them again. Not right now. So, she settled for the cold. She took small steps toward the edge of the building while the wind blew hard past her. Once she reached the edge, Hermione saw the city below.

There were cars driving across the street. Pedestrians walking down the sidewalk. Tiny spots of lights over the black blanket that covered London. This certainly was a better view than what she had in her bedroom. Slowly, she pushed herself up to sit on the cement. She let her feet fall on the side of the building with her eyes still glancing. She listened to the city noise, letting herself down in its sensations until her thoughts sunk to the bottom of her unconscious.

Wishing that it wouldn't have to resurface again.

Her knuckles pressed against the edge were she sat. The cement cold on her fingers. She pressed harder as her eyes shut. Her chest loosened, but her breathing didn't slow down. Her stomach twitched under her shirt, and she almost remembered that baby growing like a tumor in her. Waiting to be taken out. Waiting to be taken care of.

"Don't," a deep voice said behind her. Hermione snapped her head back and saw Malfoy standing, both hands in his pockets. His eyes glanced onto her. His posture was firm. His shoulders stiff as his hands were still holding the bottom of his pockets. But his face, he looked relaxed. He didn't look tense. Not like how he looked earlier, and for that, Hermione frowned.

"What?"

"Don't jump," he said. He didn't step forward.

Hermione parted her mouth, wanting to say something but the words had gotten lost somewhere in the opening of her throat before she could say it. "Oh," she mouthed. She closed her mouth again and breathed before continuing, "If you're going to convince me, you need to try harder than that." Hermione faced the city again, and waited.

It seemed that all she did was wait for three years. Wait to forget. Wait to move on. Wait to live. Wait to die. Wait to say something. Wait to leave. Wait, wait, and wait. It was what she had other than control—because time was never on her side.

Malfoy spoke up, "Do I have to?"

"No, I wasn't planning to," she said. With her hands pressed against the cement and her arms holding her up, she shrugged. "I'm self-destructive. Not suicidal. I just like sitting here and looking at the city as though everything's under my feet." Finally, Hermione twisted away from the cityscape and faced Malfoy. He had not moved from where he stood, and the only thing that moved was his eyes looking at her. A gush of cold breeze came her way again. It blew a handful of her frizzy hair against her head. After a few more seconds of silence between them, Hermione asked, "What are you doing here?"

"I needed some air, too," Malfoy said ordinarily.

"Is the flat too small? Or too crowded?"

"No. Dinner's over, so I figured I need to make an escape before Blaise begins snogging Luna again," and he smirked, running a hand smoothly through his hair. The spaces between Hermione's fingers closed as she felt the urge to run her fingers through it too.

"You called her Luna," Hermione said softly. She masked her surprise with curiosity. Then, Malfoy threw her a puzzled look. "You always called her Looney. Never Luna."

His head bowed down. She followed his gaze and found him looking at his feet as if it were a better distraction than to look at her; but she didn't ask. Soon, Malfoy turned up again. The space between his brows were creased. "Right. Well, I realized that names such as that are made by children. And I do think that I'm a bit too old for that, don't you?"

Hermione looked up, shrugging, "We lost our childhood, didn't we? I think it's alright for us to feel like children once in a while. I think the world owes us that, at least…"

When their eyes met again, Hermione felt the same depth in his eyes that she had carried for three years. Perhaps the war didn't scathe her enough as much as he was; but she certainly was scathed in other ways as well. Both of them burdened by secrets. Unspoken stories of battling a war all by yourself with no one to hold onto. Hands empty, eyes lost, hearts broken. Both of them spoke a language that perhaps only the two of them understood.

"I'm sorry," Hermione croaked. Merlin, she managed to push the words out of her throat with all of her considerable strength, and it felt as though she might vomit. She forced her eyes to meet his. To look at him and _mean_ it. "I… for coming into your office and doing that, for saying all those horrible things, for… for blaming you. I don't blame you anymore for calling me a _mudblood_. It was a long time ago, and I have worst nightmares now than that." She paused, trying to catch her breath and guiding it back to her lungs. To learn to breathe again. Sniffling, she waved a hand and said, "But it's true, anyway. I'm muddy in all the right places…"

Silence. The cars honking became louder. The loud city chatter began to thicken. Until Malfoy broke the silence that surrounded them both said, to her surprise, "Don't be. I was a right git. I deserve the blame."

She looked at him. Stared at him long enough that she felt as though any second, he might melt. She didn't know whatever he was saying; but to her, it sounded like an apology. Inwardly, she smiled. She felt as her insides warmed. The feeling was brief, but it didn't last long until her own guilt came crawling right back to remind her of her own failures. Then she shrugged off, muttering, "Guess we're both to blame, then."

"Apology accepted," he said.

"Yours as well."

Taking a side glance, she saw a slight twitch in the corner of Malfoy's lips like he was suppressing a smile. Hermione pushed away the thought until the image of his smile faded into the back of her head, and the image of being in the dormitory came back as if it never left. Her eyes watered, and she fought hard to stop them from falling.

She said quieter this time, "I… I hate him." She huffed the breath she had been trying to hold, keeping in her chest. Eyelids shut, followed by a tear falling, and she forced the words out until she tasted blood in her mouth for even trying to say anything, "That _monster_ , for what he did to me. I would've forgiven him if he was _imperiused_ or something. But he wasn't. He was drunk, yes; but he was still in his right mind and there wasn't anyone who controlled him." Her teeth gritted in anger, in pain. She could hear it in her ears, how they clamped against each other with so much force. "I couldn't even say his name out loud. Or look at _him_. Or look at Ron because they look so much like each other. And I'm so filthy, Draco…" She looked up, eyes stinging with tears. "I am so fucking dirty—"

"Being clean is overrated. It's no fun," he shrugged, shortly breaking their eye contact. He looked around as if he avoided her eyes.

"You were right to push me away, you know, because if what would've happened _happened_ , I might have lost myself completely," Hermione sniffed. She lifted a hand to wipe the stray tears that slid down her neck and face. The tears kept falling, and she tried her best not to shake as she wiped them off.

"Is that why?" She found his eyes again. "Why you stopped talking to Potter and Weasley?"

Hermione nodded. She stifled a sob, swallowing it down until it was nothing but a slight whimper. Then, she exhaled—the dry ice smoke escape her mouth.

Her teeth clamped onto a tiny piece of her lower lip and breathed, "I _loved_ Ron. I would've wanted to be married to him someday; and if he asked me before that night, I definitely would've said yes. But after that… I can't even look at him. I…" She paused, and he nodded his head softly. Hermione looked at him, before asking, with her eyes narrowed in confusion, "How did you know?"

"Gossip column. Some women in my mother's tea party last Sunday were talking about it," he said. He took a step forward and halted with his back leaning next to Hermione's seat. "You mentioned Katie Bell, and it's not really difficult to find if you're looking in the right places. I couldn't resist myself from taking a peek." Hermione looked forward—to the space where he had been standing earlier—and even though she wasn't looking, she could feel his eyes intently looking at her. Watching her. She sighed. Then he said, "Come with me to the Christmas Ball."

She gave him a sharp look, "What?"

"You heard me." He looked away, a smug expression on his face.

"Why?" Hermione nearly choked the word out. She felt herself struggling to form the right words to say to him. To say to _that_. "I'm not sure that I'm exactly the right person to introduce to your mother. I'm a _mudblood_ , remember? And recently, a whore? Clearly, not decent enough." She managed not to tear her eyes away when she said that. She saw his jaw clench under his cheek and heard as his throat made a low guttural sound of disapproval.

Malfoy winced, "And I'm a Death Eater, remember?" His eyes narrowed, and Hermione heard her heart beat racing. "More than half of the Ministry officials are invited. A mixture of all sorts—purebloods, half-bloods, muggleborns. Plus, Mother doesn't get to decide who I take and not take to the ball. I believe I am my own person, and I have the utmost ability to reason for myself."

"Why don't you ask someone more well-mannered than I am?"

"I'm asking you, Granger," he almost laughed. But Hermione didn't; instead, her frown simply deepened, deep enough to drill a hole right in the middle of her forehead.

She looked down at her hands. It fell over her lap, and her fingers started fiddling with each other again as her own anxiety kicked in. What was happening? She closed her eyes; but her nerves didn't calm. Merlin, she needed a hard drink. Harder than orange juice. "I'm not sure what to do," Hermione exhaled, after cutting off her breath for too long.

"You could say yes."

She faced him again. This time, mostly out of confusion, as though looking at his eyes would give her all the answers she was looking for. But she found nothing. All she saw was a reflection of who she was. An enigma, a mystery waiting to be unfolded. "But why? Why me? Why… not somebody else—"

He chuckled, "Must everything have a reason? Really, Granger?" He shook his head. "I know that you are a person who gives significance over logic and reasoning; but Salazar, Granger, not everything can be answered. Not everything can be explained by theories or mechanisms. Sometimes, things simply happen."

Merlin, she almost laughed at that. She hadn't been a reasonable person for a long time now based on how she dealt with things. She did things that stripped her of her identity, dignity, and here he was, asking her to go to the ball with him for whatever incomprehensible reason.

Looking down, her eyes caught a glimpse of his face. He seemed to be trying to read her like how she tried to read him, and for a moment, they were wrapped in nothing but silence. Then she continued, "I'm not… I hate drawing attention. I don't like when people follow me with their eyes or when they talk in hushed tones as if they were accidentally telling me what a slut I've become—"

"Ditto, Granger," Malfoy huffed. Then, rolled his eyes.

"People tell _you_ what a slut you've become, too?"

He smiled. Not a smirk, but a full smile. Then he didn't remove his eyes from hers and repeated with the same hint of nonchalance in his voice, "Come to the Christmas Ball with me."

"People will look at us. They will say things. Disgusting things—"

"And here I thought you didn't care about that," he said, raising an eyebrow.

"I don't. But I'm sparing you from all of that."

"So you do care about me, then?" Malfoy asked, and Hermione felt the words die right there at the tip of her tongue. He still looked at her. His eyes not leaving hers even for a second. He stood too close that she could smell his perfume. She saw the edges of his jaw, his cheeks, the long lines on his face as a result of his work. His eyes brightly gleaming under the moonlight shining from above them. Hermione clamped her mouth shut, and swallowed. "Look, I've had worse. Haven't you? I think it's time we stop caring about what people think. It's not a marriage proposal, Granger. My mother will certainly skin me alive if I decide to marry someone she hasn't properly met yet, and I don't intend to do that at the Christmas Ball."

She pressed her lips tighter.

"We'll come together as friends," Malfoy said. His shoulder relaxed. Slowly, the tension between the two of them was lifted. Hermione could feel herself breathing as normal as she could. "We're friends, aren't we?"

Her mouth parted, wanting to say something but couldn't find the answer in her mouth. She despised that word, and he knew that. But too much has changed since the twenty-fourth, too much that it almost convinced Hermione that they were. But were they? Were they friends? Were they there yet? Did they reach that point already? Merlin, she didn't know anymore. She had been sure before because the closest thing she had to a friend was the person living with her in a small flat at the third floor. She didn't trust anybody. But now, as he stood next to where she was sitting, and she could smell his perfume, and she could see his grey eyes—she wasn't sure anymore.

He knew things. Her secrets. More than anybody in her life.

Before she could stop it, she said, "Yes."

She didn't know what question that answered. But when Malfoy nodded, smirking slyly, she knew that he took it as an affirmation to his invite. Then he said casually, "Good. I'll pick you up at six, then. Would you like me to walk you down?" Hermione craned her head back to take one last glance at the city. Then her head shot back to face to Malfoy before nodding her head.

She jumped back down from the edge. Her feet landing onto the ground with a thud. She looked up, and saw him waiting for her. Together, they walked toward the door where they both came in and returned to the building. The door shut behind them, and as the cold air had been shut out, warmth quickly filled her body. She walked ahead with Malfoy following her as they both went down the stairs to her floor. None of them talked. No one broke the silence. Even their short walk down her hall toward her flat was filled with quiet footsteps and steady breathing—but none of them speaking.

Hermione stood in front of her door. Malfoy halted a few steps behind her. His eyes met hers immediately as she stopped, and she opened her mouth to breathe better, before her hand reached out to his. Next thing was her fingers occupying the spaces in between his own and she said, "Thank you." His hand felt rough against hers and warm, sending her a shock through her body that she hadn't felt in a long time. He didn't let go while he stepped forward—

He was about to say something when the door opened. Their hands tore away from each other, and their distance grew farther. Luna stood at the doorway with a welcoming smile on her face. "Hi. I knew I heard footsteps. Blaise is still inside, and we're having some cocoa," Luna beaming—her eyes glistening with euphoria.

Without a second more, Hermione stepped in. But Malfoy remained outside. Luna asked, "You coming, Draco?"

He shook his head, slowly.

"I should go. Mother awaits me at the Manor. I wouldn't want to disappoint her," Malfoy said, flashing a small smile. "Take her to bed, Luna. She seems tired. And thank you for the dinner…"

"Of course. See you around, Draco. Good night," Luna said, placing a hand on the small of Hermione's back. He looked at her while she looked at him; and none of them looked away until the door broke their eye contact. The door clicked, breaking Hermione out of her reveries, before Luna urged her to come back inside. She nodded, and followed Luna into the living room, accompanied by her troubled thoughts.

* * *

 _A/N: Take it easy. No need to rush. Did you like it? I hope you did. Thank you for all the support, and please feel free to leave reviews. I appreciate it a lot. And, of course, thanks to my wonderful beta, JularaVon, as always._

 _PS. Let me just address one of the reviewers who called (if I assumed that this is what they meant to really convey) Hermione as "a piece of garbage". I can't personally PM them since it was a guest reviewer; so let's just put this out here, also to pass this opinion to my other readers. Your review took me by surprise. I actually laughed later on, after I realized that she is indeed a garbage. But honestly, she doesn't have to be beautiful or perfect or clean to be loved. Everyone deserves to be loved, no matter how shitty they are. And truthfully, even garbage can be art. There are artists who collect garbage and piece it together into art. That can also be applied to my character here because I believe that being an art is more important than being beautiful or clean because everyone can be beautiful. Put on a make up and you already are. Edit a photo and you are. But art, no. Art is personal and absolutely deep that not everyone can reach that far. Art goes deeper than what is physical. Art is emotions, and thoughts, and soul-searching. And you know what I love about art is that it has different meaning for each individual. It's mostly subjective. So yeah, I think that Hermione is absolutely garbage here, but regardless, she is art to me. And I wrote her this way as a reflection of myself. Not because I was sexually assaulted, to which the concept is something that I oppose; but her emotions - those are my emotions. I wrote this as a reminder to myself that it gets better._


	14. Chapter Twelve

**Chapter Twelve**

 **STIFF UPPER LIP**

 _December 16, 2001_

He fought back his throat from spitting all the food out of his mouth as his mother took a small sip from her red wine. He pulled the napkin resting on his lap, and in one swift movement, took it to his lips to wipe evidence of his surprise. He coughed as he sat properly again, pulling his chair closer, and tried his best to wrap his head around what he had just heard.

Stealing a glance at his mother, Narcissa sat upright with a half-full glass of wine in her right hand and her red lips twitching into a tight smile. These were some of the moments that Draco failed to read his mother completely. Her smile—conveying two messages that he wasn't entirely sure if he wanted to know, but a slight itch in the little vein in his temple urged him to ask about it. But he decided to sit stiffly and eat his dinner without a word. Or a sound of protest.

It was at that night that his mother had openly told him about her decisions to invite three-quarters of the Ministry staff to her annual Christmas ball. He allowed his grey eyes to search hers for a slight flinch, or anything that would be considered as a hint of doubt, before he conceded to her wish. Draco admitted to himself that after hearing his mother's decision, he initially thought that she had gone bonkers. But a few more minutes of deliberate consideration, his mind shifted to the idea that perhaps it was, indeed, a clever move. A good publicity stunt; and even if Draco's intentions were mainly to uplift their image, he knew that his mother's were, almost if not so entirely, inherently pure.

Draco blinked, seeing his reflection standing in front of the mirror, and the image of that dinner with his mother faded into the past once again. He thought of things that might convince his mother to reconsider this insanity; but of course, that would've been too late. The ballroom had been decorated. The elves had made it their life's mission to prepare the best three-course meal for the evening. The gates were about to be opened. Indeed, it was too late. So lest he desired to disappoint his mother, he needed to play nice.

His rough hands ironed the collar of his coat, feeling the texture under his palms, and removing any of the creases after he put it on. He clasped the bowtie around his neck a little tighter. He stretched his legs, his arms, his shoulders, his back—and he was ready. The suit that his mother had fixed to be personally tailored fitted him perfectly. His grey eyes traveled from his shoes to his face in front of the full-length mirror, and behind him, he caught a glimpse of his mother standing by the door frame of his own bedroom.

He hadn't heard her come in. But that was his mother, even stealthier than Potter hiding under his invisibility cloak in the Slytherin's train compartment. Draco had gotten used to it by now. He knew his mother too much, and she knew him too much, too.

Narcissa flashed a smirk, and said, "You look handsome as always. Just like your father."

He flinched, but hid it from his mother. Yes, he looked like his father. Almost, at least. Malfoy men were biologically known to have pale blond hair and carry their formidable looks. But no, the last thing Draco wanted to be was be like his father. To follow his footsteps or even look remotely like him. He had _loved_ his father once. Even if his father had been the most difficult parent to care for, Draco still loved his father as much as any child would've loved theirs.

But that had been years ago. That man had been long gone. Dead. Lost into the void of the past. He didn't want any reminders of that man, and the crimes he had committed out of blind faith, because carrying his name was more than enough as a burden. And it was a curse he was doomed to carry on for the rest of his miserable life.

Snorting, he turned to face his mother. She wore a dark green dress, wrapped around her slim figure and cut below the knees. She had grown a few inches taller with the pair of black heels that she matched her dress with. A handful of her blonde hair was gathered into a knot behind her head while the rest flowed graciously over her bare shoulders. He wondered if she would get cold, but the fur-coat hugging her arms answered his question.

Draco sighed, his hands pushing deep into his pockets. "Is it starting?"

His mother shook her head. She took a couple of small steps toward her son with her hands clasped to her front and breathed, "Almost. I haven't opened the gates yet. But in a few minutes, our guests should be arriving, and I need to be downstairs to welcome them."

Silence filled the short distance between them. Only to be replaced by their heavy breathing, and the sense of unspoken words hanging in the air. Draco felt his mother's eyes darted onto him like a nail and drilling a deeper hole into his skull. So, he sent her a sharp look. But she only smiled.

She asked, "Do you have a date tonight?"

He exhaled. While Priscilla Parkinson spent her days bidding her own daughter to numerous men in the pureblood society for marriage and a larger fortune, his own mother wasn't so different. When his relationship with Astoria ended, Narcissa insisted that he was in the need to spice up his dating life by inviting different witches on different dinner occasions who wasted their breaths and a good half an hour talking about mindless gossip that Draco had cared nothing for. He had developed several escape strategies whenever he felt trapped in that bubble, and sometimes, a smoke was better company than those witches.

Of course, his mother despised his smoking. But sometimes, he only did it to spite her. He could use one right now by how his mother was looking at him. She waited, but gaining the sense that he wasn't planning to indulge her satisfactions with his answers, she spoke again: "Well, is she the same woman that you have been pining for these past few days?"

Draco snickered. It wasn't the first time she asked him that. And even if he denied it, it wouldn't be the first time that he lied to her too. Not that he was ever successful at that before. She knew him all too well. Draco knew who she was talking about. It was Granger. He had shared countless dinners with many witches in the Wizarding World invited by his mother; but his mind had somehow dug a tunnel through his brain that always led right back to Granger.

The puzzle that she was, was much complex than he had anticipated.

"I wasn't pining, Mother," Draco groaned. He brought a hand to rub his temple as it began to ache terribly at his mother's inquiries.

But what he heard was a chuckle. A soft laugh emitting from his mother's lips, amusement could easily be distinguished from that sound, which made his cheeks redden at his own chagrin. Shortly, Narcissa stifled her laughter and said, "Please, Draco, I'm your mother. I carried you with me for nine months. I'd suggest that you don't underestimate my abilities to read you perfectly."

He snapped his head with a reply, not clearly knowing that she wanted to hear from him, "Yes. I'm picking her up in five minutes. Happy?"

"Very. Will you introduce me later, then?" Narcissa questioned, eyes glistening under the light touch of mascara that rounded them.

Draco raised an eyebrow. Her smile widened.

"Will you promise not to be rude? Or embarrass me?"

"I am never rude, Draco. But not to embarrass you? You are asking me not to do my duties as a mother," Narcissa chuckled. He heard her heels cackling softly against the carpet as she began to walk around the vicinity of his room, and from the corner of his eyes, he noticed a cunning smirk twitched at the ends of her red-coated lips. "Well, of course, I promise not to be crass. I cannot, however, promise not embarrass you…"

Draco huffed, but couldn't prevent a smirk. His mother stopped walking when she reached a few steps in front of her son. Her hand reached up to touch his cheek before Draco said, "That I can handle, Mother. Thank you."

Narcissa's smile didn't falter. His chest rumbled as though a storm brewed inside it. Then she asked, "Are you worried?" He looked at her. The smile that had painted her face a while ago had dissolved into a deep frown. Even her eyes seemed darker. Or perhaps that was the light. But it didn't matter. He didn't know if he was one being asked, or if was a question for herself.

Then, he shut his eyes with an exasperated sigh. His face still held in her hand, he leaned closer to feel her warm and assuring touch against his cheek. He didn't know what was going on in his head right now, his thoughts were too scattered for him to build a pattern, and he couldn't find any. But his mother shouldn't have to worry about any of his thoughts right now.

After a moment, he opened his eyes. He saw his mother's eyes, the eyes that always calmed him whenever he felt distressed or angry or frustrated or anxious. The eyes that always looked at him with such affection. She pressed her lips into a tight line before tiptoeing to reach his cheek. He felt her lips touched that tiny dimple on his left cheek before she pulled back with another smile. Unreal or real, he didn't know. Then, she said, "Come, Draco. I believe we have a very long night ahead of us."

He stepped away, and extended a hand to escort her outside. His mother walked on, and he followed from behind her. His fingers touched the doorknob, and one last look at his bedroom, he shut the door. Halfway down the stairs, Draco halted and said, "I need to pick up my date, Mother. I shall meet you in the ballroom." Narcissa nodded with a slightly amused smile; to which he ignored, and headed to disapparate in the lobby.

Once he landed, the busy streets of London solidified at his feet. Instantly, loud vehicular noises replaced the fading sound of the Manor's classical Christmas tunes. Draco stood right in the middle of some dark alley; and for a moment, his head swirled as an after effect of his apparition. He focused his senses to the sounds filling his ears, his head, his gut, until his mind had stopped throbbing like a racing pulse. He began his short walk toward Granger's apartment building.

It didn't take him too long to reach her apartment. He climbed three flights of stairs and walked down the narrow and empty corridor until he finally arrived at their doorstep. He didn't knock immediately. He waited for a second. Then a minute. Then a few more minutes. And when he thought that he might not be ready to knock anytime soon, he deeply exhaled and knocked. It was soft, yet audible enough, and soon, the door flung open to reveal Luna Lovegood who clearly hadn't been expecting to see him.

She wore a rosy tea-length dress matched with silver stilettos. Her face had a fair amount of make-up. Her once-straggly blonde hair was smoothed and wrapped in a neatly fixed bun with a few strands dangling at the side of her cheery face. And despite how she looked exceptionally ordinary to attend a ball, Draco thought that she looked wonderful.

Luna broke his reveries when she greeted him with a beaming smile, "Oh hello, Draco. I thought you were Blaise. Come in." She stepped aside for him to enter. Her heels cackling against the floorboards. He walked in as he was instructed and followed Luna to the living room. The flat looked the same as he last saw it the last time he came for a visit. The only difference was that the kitchen looked unusually cleaned, scrubbed, and unoccupied.

"Is he picking you up?" Draco asked, as he pushed his hands deep into his pockets.

"Yes. In about a minute," Luna said—her voice calm. He watched as she went on to finish fixing her purse, and later, she asked him back, "Are you here for Hermione?"

"Yes, actually," Draco said after he cleared his throat. There was that lump that wouldn't dissolve right at the middle of his neck. He felt his stomach flipping, and for what reason, he didn't know. Before he realized it, he was reminding himself to breathe in and out. "Is she ready yet?"

Luna paced. She walked here and there; and even if Draco wasn't looking, the sound of her footsteps were enough evidence to tell him that she was walking around. "I don't know. The last time I saw her was about an hour ago. She was still covered in paint," she said.

He frowned, "Paint? What was she doing?"

"Oh, she decided to redecorate. Did some paintings on the wall. It's magnificent, really. I didn't know she had a knack for art," Luna rambled, but smiled. "Why don't you wait here while I check on Hermione? Is that alright?"

Draco nodded, with a hum in agreement.

He watched Luna as she disappeared down the hall toward Granger's bedroom. Her footsteps faded as she went farther, and Draco remained standing where Luna left him. He looked around. The living room was dull, and there were no ornaments. It had an old couch where Granger had fucked him senseless, an oval shaped coffee table where they later moved into a more comfortable position, a cabinet where they kept dusty books, and a small window to the right. He looked out of it—seeing the night has finally devoured the city into its darkness, only to be decorated with little city lights.

The door opened; and he expected Luna to emerge, but instead, was greeted by Blaise coming through the front door. He looked as ordinary as he could be, but perhaps that was because he had known Blaise most of his life. He knew how Blaise dressed at different occasions after having to share countless parties with him as they grew up. Blaise took fast strides toward the living room, and a grin plastered onto his dark lips, "Hello, Draco. Here to pick up Hermione, I presume?"

Draco nodded.

"Where's Luna?"

"She went to check on Granger," Draco said, shrugging.

Blaise hummed, before they both fell into silence. They stood side by side, waiting, but neither of them felt to talk. Until Blaise asked, "Does your mother know who you're taking to the ball?"

Draco turned to his friend. Blaise had his eyes fixed on the hall that led to the bedrooms, probably counting the seconds until Luna walked out. Then after a long moment, Draco said, "No. But I don't think it would matter. No, not really. She doesn't get to decide that for me. Of course, she is my mother, and I value her opinions greatly. But those are just that— _opinions_." Blaise nodded his head slowly. Draco watched as his friend turned to him, and his sly smirk edging on his lips. Then, he let out a cough when he felt Blaise's hand clapping on his back hard. He glared, and Blaise stifled his laughter.

Loud footsteps returned them back into reality. Luna stalked from the hall and said, "Oh hi, Blaise. I didn't hear you come in."

Draco turned back to the window. His eyes darted onto the streets where muggle cars raced, and Londoners walked on this early evening. Behind him, he heard Blaise say, "I let myself in." A pause. "You look _really_ fantastic, babe. I am most certainly the luckiest man in the entire ball."

"Thank you," Luna chirped. Draco could hear the smile in her voice. "Oh, Draco," and as Draco turned, he noticed Luna was locked in between his best friend's arms, "—She's nearly done. Maybe five minutes more. Do you want us to wait for you?"

Draco shook his head, supplying, "No, that's alright. You can go ahead. I'd like a word with Granger before we leave. We'll be right behind you…"

"Alright, then. Ready, love?" Blaise said, as he turned to the woman in his arms. She nodded in excitement, before taking his hand in hers. She dragged Blaise toward the front door, and as they exited, Draco heard her tiny voice, "We'll see you at the ball, Draco." He could hear her laughter. It died down as soon as the door shut close, and Draco stood alone.

Again, he waited.

Letting his mind wander, he began to think back to that evening that he had asked Granger to be his date. It was an impulsive gesture, of course; although not out of pity, he knew that it would look like he took her for charity. It wasn't his intention. He extended a branch to their impending friendship and perhaps she would consider him as a friend; even though, he didn't know why it mattered to him. It didn't matter why; because what mattered was that it _mattered_ to _him_.

Granger remained a mystery to him. He knew her better than anyone. Better than Potter and Weasley, to which he wasn't sure if that was a good thing in the first place. He had her long-kept secrets hidden in the back of his mind. And the more he knew her, the more he wanted to stay. For weeks, Draco tried to figure the situation he had entered, map the patterns, find the way in and out, and perhaps he might be alright, but he came nothing close to that feeling of satisfaction. It felt as though he was swimming in uncharted waters, and there was no map to tell him which direction to take.

He never liked exploring unexplored territories. He didn't like to act without a plan. No, that wasn't what he was. He didn't charge without a proper strategy, without having laid out all the pros and cons of whatever he was going for. But with Granger, Draco ran headfirst with no idea what was waiting for him on the other side, and he still didn't, but he kept charging on. He cared for her, and whatever force was pulling him in, he didn't fight it.

He let the currents take him where it went.

Not swimming in, not swimming away.

Just floating.

"Malfoy?" Draco turned at the sound of his name; and immediately, his eyes landed on Granger. She stood with her hand smoothing over the length of her evening gown. The color was emerald green, and the skirt flowed down to the floor. Her dark hair, bundled in thick curls, cascaded down her shoulders like waterfalls that gave perfect angle to the shape of her face.

She looked…

Clearing his throat, Draco said, "Evening, Granger. You clean up nicely."

He heard her trying to suppress a smirk into a huff, but failed as soon as a smile broke her thin red lips in a curve. She looked away before she said, "You look not half as bad too."

Draco stepped forward. He closed their distance to a few steps away and stopped when he found a better view of Granger's eyes and said, "Before we go, I have something to tell you." He sighed softly. "Most of the Ministry staff have been invited, as I've said before, but I failed to mention that Potter and Weasley are most likely to make an attendance." He couldn't help but notice the sudden pain in her eyes before she could look away. He fought the desire to reach out to her, to place a hand on her cheek, and to graze the length of his fingers against the narrowness of her jaw. _No_ , he chided himself. He continued, "You may refuse to attend if you don't want to see them. My mother will surely understand."

Among other things, he noticed a few more things other than her eyes. Like how her neck seemed to freeze. Like how her breathing had quickened in a matter of seconds. He sighed again. Then she spoke, still not looking, "No. I've been avoiding them for so long. It doesn't really help me forget, does it? I might as well face them right now."

He nodded, and asked, "What is that muggle saying? Stiff—"

"Stiff upper lip," Granger interrupted. Then, a nod. "Right. I know. The Wizarding World is small. I don't think I'll be able to outrun them, anyway."

After a deliberate amount of silence, Draco offered his hand for her to take. His eyes watched hers carefully as she gradually slid her hand into his. He almost shivered when their hands connected, feeling her skin against his, but Draco ignored the shock that ran through his spine during their walk toward the apparition point. She didn't let go of him, and neither did he. Reaching the dark alley where he arrived at earlier, he took one last glance at Granger and disapparated them both to the Manor.

* * *

 _A/N: Hello! Apologies for the delay. But, don't worry, the next chapter is already written and beta-ed. So, I'll post that soon. Honestly, I don't know what to feel regarding this chapter. And the next. But well, I needed to write it. I hope you liked though. Thanks to my amazing beta, JularaVon, as always. And my gratitude is extended to my ever-supportive readers. Thank you! Please, review. I live for it! 'Til next time. (Or in a few days. Lol.)_


	15. Chapter Thirteen

**Chapter Thirteen**

 **THE CHRISTMAS BALL**

 _December 16, 2001_

Hermione didn't know what possessed her to come here.

Why she came here.

Once they landed, the image of the Malfoy Manor materialized at their feet. She stood between two large oak doors left widely open that lead to a crowded entrance hall. It didn't look anything like the Malfoy Manor at all, not from what she remembered; but she did remember Malfoy telling him that his mother scrubbed every tile and inch of this house to erase dark memories. The atrocities of the war. What she remembered from her last visit was a sense of eeriness in the air, almost as close as being subjected into the Dementor's kiss; but where she stood now was a strong evidence that the Manor had survived catastrophic incidents. Just as the Malfoys did.

Christmas ornaments filled the entire hall with bright colors. Garlands, magically grown across the wall as grapevines would, bore a variety of Christmas décor, and a twelve-foot Christmas tree standing at the end of her eyesight. It was gleaming with series of lights littered around its torso, and a gold star at the top. The last time she had been anywhere in the Malfoy Manor was when the Snatchers had captured her, Harry, and Ron. She winced as Bellatrix's laughter penetrated her again, seething underneath her skin to retrace patterns of old scars that never fully healed—and she pushed them far back. The _mudblood_ scar engraved on her forearm almost pulsed at the thought; but she couldn't think of that woman.

Because thinking about Bellatrix, or him, or anyone who damaged her, it gave them power. To haunt, to torture, to kill. Merlin knew that Hermione had died a thousand times by now, and she was still dying. She wondered if it was possible to die so many times and so much.

Coming here was probably a mistake. She rummaged her brain for any sanity left in her; and as she had expected, she failed to find one. She never liked the attention; in fact, she _despised_ it. She told Malfoy that, and even he shared the same hatred for being the center of a crowd. While her former friends attracted as much attention as they could, she never found interest in being the center of anything. And attending the ball would certainly turn a lot of heads to her way.

Three years of hiding would be enough proof to convince her to turn around and leave. But if she did, she would be admitting to herself what a coward she was. She didn't attend Harry and Ginny's wedding, not only because she was hiding from them, but also because she wasn't brave enough to face her demons. Her fears. Her failures. So, why did it matter now?

What she didn't like most about being seen was how people looked at her. They talked in hushed and soft chatter as if they were being careful enough not to talk about something she shouldn't hear. Malfoy asked her before if she was proud for her reputation, and what she told was a lie. No, she wasn't proud; but what she did was all she had. If it meant fucking all the men within a ten mile radius, only to give her a little bit more control, she would.

This was, by far, the most foolish act to whatever game she was playing. Especially, as she came with Malfoy.

He still had his hand wrapped around hers. He held it in the living room, and when they walked down London to the nearest apparition point, and while they disapparated, and when they apparated, and he hadn't released her since.

She saw his face. The tight angle of his jaw. The stubble that grew over his chin. The curl of his lips. Those eyes that seemed brighter than all the lights in the room. The curve of his cheekbones. The stray strands of pale hair masking over his eyes. And she had been looking at him for weeks now whenever he came to dinner with them, squished in at the table between Blaise and her, or whenever he sat with her in the cold at the rooftop, talking about nothing and everything—but now, as she looked at him, she realized that she hadn't been looking enough.

So she watched him closely. Closer than she had before.

He whispered, "Alright there, Granger?" His long fingers grazed onto the exposed skin around her wrist. His thumb rubbing against her pulse. Each beat drumming. His palm clasped that joint between her hand and her wrist. But his eyes didn't leave her. He didn't even show an interest to look away. He just watched her, like how she watched him.

Hermione nodded.

She looked up at him and saw that he was looking straight ahead. At the end of the hall, Narcissa Malfoy stood at the light spilling onto the opening of the ballroom doors. She smiled, shook hands, and welcomed the guests. She took one last glance at Malfoy before taking their first step since they apparated right into the front lobby.

Halting at once, Malfoy said after a long moment of silence, "Mother. Allow me to introduce Ms. Hermione Granger."

Hermione turned; and as she did, she realized that this was the first time she actually looked at Narcissa Malfoy. Each line on her face were distinct, outlined, and detailed. Her eyes, a clear shade of blue, highlighted by the chandelier lights. Cheekbones high and pink with a light touch of make-up. Half of her blonde hair was tied behind her head while the rest flowed smoothly over her bare shoulders, showing a bit of her pale skin. Hermione stood about an inch or two taller than Narcissa, or perhaps it was the heels, she wasn't sure. But Narcissa somehow found a reconciliation between looking formidable and charming at the same time—unsettling Hermione's nerves, knowing that this woman was Bellatrix's younger sister.

The last time she saw Narcissa Malfoy was during the Battle of Hogwarts. Narcissa stood on the other side with her hand grasping her wand tightly. Narcissa looked ragged, covered in dirt, and blissful at the sight of her son still alive. Perhaps that was the reason she lied to Voldemort about Harry being alive; but none of it mattered. Her allegiance didn't matter because if it wasn't for her, the war wouldn't have ended right there and then. She didn't see neither Malfoys after that. Soon after, Hermione received news about Narcissa's and Malfoy's pardons by the Ministry for their tight circumstances.

Narcissa flashed a smile. She tilted her head to acknowledge Hermione's presence, and as his fingers loosened, Hermione took this as a strong indication that he seemed more relax now than he was a few minutes ago. His mother said, "Good evening, Ms. Granger. Thank you for accepting my invitation. I'm pleased to have met you properly. I believe that our previous encounters was rather unpleasant; but if you would so kindly allow me, I would like to make up for that unfortunate incident and be acquainted with you."

Hermione shifted her gaze to Malfoy. He looked away.

"That would be lovely, Mrs. Malfoy," Hermione returned a smile.

Narcissa turned to her son, beaming. Malfoy released Hermione's hand before leaning in, pressing a kiss on his mother's cheek. He stopped for a minute. When he pulled back, Hermione noticed that he looked a shade redder; but he looked away. Narcissa shifted to both of them and said, "Well, off you go, then. I'll see you inside. Save your mother a dance, will you?"

Malfoy snickered before nodding. His hand, the one that had been holding Hermione's hand, was pressed onto her lower spine. She could feel how his fingers hovered over the fabric of her dress, touching but not pushing, and the skin on the back of her neck rose into tiny spots. Malfoy led her through the ballroom occupied with more than three hundred guests.

The moment she felt the immediate heat of light, and the looks directed toward her like invisible daggers, she exhaled the breath she had been holding. Her abdomen began to relax as she eased to the atmosphere, her heart slowed its beating, her eyes glancing all over the place. She saw people she recognized, but these were people she hadn't talked to in a long time. Not a moment longer, she found her former friends huddled together on one corner, drinks in hand, and gaping at her as if she carried the plague. Harry eased a hand on his wife's back before muttering something inaudible, Ron mouthing something in distaste, Dean carrying a recognizable worried look on his face as Cho Chang spoke voicelessly next to him, and Luna standing next to them with her rosy-colored lips curved into a smile—

Whispered gossips filled the room. Or at least the air she breathed. She could hear them murmuring as she began to walk. Her small, frigid steps came along with Malfoy's. Each of her breaths came out as exasperated sighs as though she had exhausted herself by simply entering the ballroom, and she exhaled. Why did it matter? Why did _they_? They were nothing to her. Nothing but mindless ghosts roaming around her who cared about nothing but static chatter. Her back straightened, her face hardened, and her mouth that itched for a taste of cigarette twisted.

There was that static noise in Hermione's ears again. The sound, the noise began to wane into nothing but continuous buzzing. Glancing around, she watched their movements. Mouths moving, hands pointing, eyes filled with nothing but disgust. Hermione caught some of the words being thrown in their mindless chatter, almost as though they intended to accidentally slip calling her a slut, a fag, a whore, a disappointment, and a whole lot of variety of demeaning names—but these words were nothing new. She'd heard them before, labeling her like some product, and she owned up to it. Her acceptance had been taken before she could even give it. But, why did it matter now?

She owned it before. She had to own it now.

Suddenly, Malfoy inched closer. His mouth set several centimeters away from her earlobe, and heard him whisper, "Ignore them." Hermione fluttered her eyes shut for a moment as she felt the heat of his breath breezing upon the skin at the back of her ears, crawling down her neck, and she faced him. Slowly. Malfoy's lips were too close, and suppressing a smirk at one corner.

Blaise Zabini stood by himself. He also carried a cunning look with his hands pushed deep into his pockets as though he'd been waiting for them to arrive. "Quite an entrance back there, Draco, eh? Surely, the Daily Prophet will have some new gossip to spread tomorrow," Blaise said—his arrogant smirk breaking into a full-pledged grin. Hermione glanced at Malfoy, who in response had rolled his eyes. "Well, don't you look dashing, Hermione?" Looking back, she found Blaise looking at her. He continued, his eyebrows reaching up his forehead, "Did Draco tell you that?"

She huffed, but smiled too; before she said, "I think his best compliment only extends only as far as, ' _You clean up nicely._ '" Malfoy curled his lips in both amusement and embarrassment, to which Blaise resulted to crack up in hoots of laughter.

Smirking, Malfoy remarked, "Well, she does, doesn't she?"

"Yes, she does," Blaise agreed, nodding his head. "Well, we all know that Draco is about as expressive as a post. I'm sure he means well. But honestly, Hermione, you look beautiful. Save me a dance, alright? He doesn't get to have you all night—"

"Stealing my date, Zabini?"

"Well, it'd be nice to share, don't you think?" Blaise asked, chuckling. "Fine, then. Keep her to yourself. I already have the best woman in this party, anyway. And, speaking of—"

Blaise nodded his head forward. Hermione, along with Malfoy, looked back and saw Luna Lovegood heading their way. The skirt of her tea-length dress swaying with each step she took. Not long, she retreated to Blaise's side, who put his arm around her waist. Hermione watched as Luna kissed Blaise's cheek. Blaise chuckled at that gesture.

"Hi, Hermione!" Luna exclaimed, eyes glinting in excitement. "I'm glad you made it in time. Did you get to finish painting?"

Hermione shook her head. Under her fingernails, there were still unwashed evidences of assorted paint. It took her an hour to scrub colors that had been smudged on her face and arms, and perhaps an hour longer to scrub the remaining paint in some of the hidden parts of her anatomy, but it was worth it.

She had forgotten how it felt to paint. As much as she loved reading as a child, she loved to paint. It gave color to her once mundane world before she went to Hogwarts. Books developed her imagination but was only limited to her mind. Through painting, she could brush colors onto an empty canvas and express the things she'd seen from her books.

The things she imagined. The things she dreamed of.

When she took the paintbrush in her hand for the first time in an awfully long time, her hands still shook; but it helped as she traced the sketches she made on the walls like how she traced her fingers onto the length of her dying cigarette. Like how she traced her hands onto the skin of any men she bedded. And it almost came as close to the truth that she had been searching for.

The truth was not that it happened. The truth was not that who she was now would be the only thing she'd ever be in the future. The truth was not that they had touched her vehemently, signing off her skin as their own property. Those were just parts of the truth but never the entire truth. The truth was that every breath she took was an opportunity to survive. To live. To move forward. To step ahead. To be better. To be freed from her chains. To be done with it all.

Was that what she was looking for? Redemption? Salvation? Perhaps.

She had been attempting to gain control of her life. Of her circumstances. Of her consequences. But Hermione had somehow known from the tiniest corner of her brain that nothing can really be controlled. She would always face an opposition to what she wanted to be, what she wanted to happen, and she needed to accept that it was okay, sometimes.

To lose control. To be unable to grasp the seconds of her life in her hands.

"You okay, Granger?" The sound of his voice pulled her back. She craned her face to him. Their eyes met. How his grey eyes had seemed to brighten even more against the light, she didn't know; but she was sinking in its depths. "They're here. Your friends—"

Yes, she knew. He knew that she knew; but in case, he told her not to remind her but to warn her. Hermione hitched a breath. She saw them earlier when they entered. Standing close to each other—inseparable. But she pushed her thoughts away. She pushed them far back into her unconsciousness until she had forgotten about them. About him. About everything. She needed to breathe an air that didn't taste like their presence; but it was impossible because she was too close to them.

"I know," Hermione said. Her words came out as flat, almost as if she didn't want to talk about it, and she didn't. She stared at Malfoy with words hooked on the side of her mouth. "They aren't my friends. You're my friend. Not them…"

Friends. How she hated that word; and maybe—just maybe, in an alternate universe of whatever possibilities—she considered Malfoy as a friend. Not as someone she knew. Not as someone she fucked. Not as a stranger. But a _friend_ , and she hoped along with this possibility that it turned out better than her former ones.

It was the best she could do. Hope, no matter how hopeless.

"Good," Malfoy said. The hand on her back disappeared. She looked back, trying to follow his movements, but he only lifted it to her as an offer. Then he smirked, "Dance with me, Granger."

Taking his hand again, Malfoy led her to the middle of the ballroom. She watched him while he placed a hand on her back to pull her closer and another to hold her hand. Still dancing, Hermione looked at him; but his eyes were looking somewhere else.

His gaze shifted on that empty space on the side of Hermione's head—and suddenly, his eyes darkened into a shade that Hermione realized was familiar. The look he had was a look she had whenever she saw Harry, Ron, or Ginny. It bore of the same shame and the same guilt; but perhaps a little different. She waited until he turned back to her, but he didn't, instead he looked anywhere else besides from her eyes.

She tilted her head as they rounded the ballroom, long enough for her to catch a short glimpse of what he was looking at. She saw Daphne Greengrass standing next to a happy couple; a young dark-haired witch in the loving arms of a tall wizard, laughing. She immediately felt the euphoric sensation vibrating from their aura, as though they were only standing a few inches away, and turned back to Malfoy.

He still hadn't looked back at her.

Soon, realization hit her. Like a punch in the gut. Like a thorn lodged in her ribs.

"Who is she with?" Malfoy raised his head at her question. He frowned, but Hermione only flashed a tight lipped smile. Surging with curiosity, she continued to give him a more thorough information about how she knew. "Daphne mentioned it a few times that you dated her sister. She didn't tell me any details; but by the look on your face, it seemed serious."

"It was. At some point," Malfoy sighed—annoyance filling him for some reason.

"Will you tell me something about her?"

"Why?"

"It's a better distraction."

They held each other's gaze for a minute longer. Still dancing. Still waiting. Waiting to say something. She wasn't sure as to what he waited for but she waited for him to answer her question. To tell her anything. Something. Everything.

"Astoria puts two cubes of sugar in her tea. She likes peppermint tea better than chamomile. Well, from what I, at least, remember when we were still together," Malfoy said. Hermione felt that little pressure in his hand as he held hers; but she ignored it. He glanced away for one second, and when he looked back at her, he said, "I… I was the one who ended it. Our relationship."

"Why?"

"We didn't work. At least, not well enough," he exhaled as if he was forcing out the words out of his throat, and gently, the hand from his shoulder slid down to his chest. She felt him beating against her as loud as hers—their pulse drumming in synchronization.

"How long were you together?"

"Eight months."

"Did you love her?" A shadow past Malfoy's eyes, Hermione noticed, and even if it was gone immediately, she still saw it because she had been watching him closely. He stared right back. He looked at her without blinking and opened his mouth. His lips curled as he answered—

"Once."

Like how she had once loved Ron.

Hermione looked back toward the direction of the woman standing next to her date in a crowd. A genuine smile plastered onto her face. Her arm snaked around her date's waist while his wrapped around her bare shoulders. Both of them talking, laughing, totally enclosed in their own personal bubble.

Hermione said, not looking back at Malfoy, "She's beautiful."

"She is. She looks happy too."

Both of them fell into silence. Drowning in the overwhelming noise that surrounded them, filling their ears with mixed sounds of music, high-pitched laughter, and glasses clinking with one another. Over the static noise that wrapped them both in an awkward embrace, Malfoy added, "But I've always thought of _beauty_ as an extremely shallow term to describe someone. It is overtly limited, and I believe that there is much more to a person that that. I find it more entertaining to pick at someone's brains—their thoughts, their memories, their emotions—instead of settling for someone because of their physical assets. We see beautiful people every day, but we only see people with brilliant minds on rare occasions."

Hermione couldn't help but smile at that. His hand reached to touch her cheek. She flinched, and kicked the flash in her brain like a thunder reminding her of a storm, but as he muttered an apology, she slowly shook her head. She let out a shaky chuckle from her throat and breathed, "No. It's fine. I just… I have to get used to it, somehow."

"I know."

He dropped his hand; but hers were faster, and took it back to her cheeks, not wanting to forget the warm feeling of his touch against her skin, "Don't. Don't please. Your hand is cold, you know." None of them seemed to know what this meant; but at that moment, nothing mattered because it felt like rightest thing in the universe. He slowly ran his thumb along her skin and the rest of his fingers touching her jawline.

"And your cheek is warm enough," he whispered. She saw a smile appear on his face. Warmer than how his hand felt against her. "By the way, you have some paint here." His thumb pressed harder on that tiny spot on her cheek, resulting her face to flush, before he smiled faintly.

"I like honey and milk in my earl grey tea," Hermione said, causing him to raise his eyes toward her with a certain glint of surprise and relief.

"I'll take note of that," Malfoy smirked. "Thank you for accepting to be my date tonight, Granger."

The dance went on in silence, and it was perfect.

* * *

 _A/N: Like I said, I'll upload this soon. I know that there wasn't any action in the previous chapter but that one and this one are actually related. I just divided them because it was so long. There isn't much action here as well since these last two chapters were transitional. I hope you liked it. Thanks to my beta, JularaVon, and to my readers. 'Til next time._


	16. Chapter Fourteen

**Chapter Fourteen**

 **THE BEGINNING OF THE END**

 _December 24, 2001_

" _Mummy?"_

 _It was a little girl's voice that echoed in the back of her head. She turned, and there—a little girl with thick red curls stood in a flower dress. She had pale skin and distinct freckles over her cheeks that made her face seem whiter than it had to be. The girl couldn't have been older than three years old. Her feet were small, wearing glossy black shoes and high white socks. Her face bore an innocent look that didn't seem to be bothered by the world._

 _And its atrocities._

" _Yes, baby?" Hermione asked. In her mind, she wondered where that came from. She didn't have a child, no. She almost did, but that had been the extent of it. She got rid of it when it was only about a few weeks old, and not considerably alive. Her voice came out in such a caring tone, almost lovingly, but somewhere in the deepest corner of her mind, she asked where that came from—_

 _The girl puckered her lower lip out and said, "I'm lonely, Mummy."_

" _Why is that, love?"_

 _Hermione felt her hand rise to reach the stray curls that flew over her face. She brushed it off, and even if she tried to stop herself from doing so, she realized that she had lost control over her body. She resisted a smile, but failed and ended up flashing one to the child._

" _Because I'm all alone here. I don't have anyone to play with," the little girl said, her voice sad and forlorn. Hermione took the little girl's hand in hers and let the girl curl her tiny fingers around her index._

" _Well, I'm here, aren't I? Don't you want to play with me?"_

" _But, you're not really here, Mummy. You didn't want me," said the girl. Hermione felt something hit her chest at those words. The girl raised her eyes to meet Hermione's. Her eyes were blue, the color of deep ocean under the striking sun, and Hermione would've thought that her eyes looked beautiful—but how the girl looked at her, it was anything but beautiful._

 _It was loneliness in all of its forms._

 _Hermione ran her hands over the little girl's arms and shook her head, saying, "Of course, I want you. I'm right here, aren't I?"_

" _No, Mummy. You went to the doctor, remember? With Auntie Luna?" Hermione felt as her eyes watered with warm tears, accompanied with a sharper pain right across her torso that she couldn't fight off. Hermione tried to hold back her tears, but slowly, a drop falls onto her left cheek. "You screamed at the doctor. You screamed that you didn't want me. That you didn't want to see me. Why, Mummy? Why didn't you love me?"_

 _Hermione shook her head. Faster this time, as if how hard she shook her head could've changed everything but she knew it was too late. She felt more tears sliding across her face. She looked up, seeing that tears were rolling down the little girl's cheeks too._

 _The little girl continued, "Was I bad girl? Did I do something wrong?"_

 _Hermione wrapped all of her fingers around both of the girl's narrow wrists. She held onto the girl—not wanting to let go. Maybe if she held tighter, she might be able to change her mistakes. Her decisions. Her failure to be the bigger person. She croaked, between her sobs and hiccups, "No, love. It's Mummy's fault, okay? You didn't do anything wrong. You were perfect, and I was so scared when I shouldn't have been. I should've done better. I'm so sorry, love—"_

 _She closed her eyes. Her apology dissolving into her ears like a distant memory. Suddenly, Hermione felt a hand touching the soft spot on her cheek. She cracked an eye to see the little girl wiping away tiny gems of tears that had stained her face. Hermione leaned closer to the little girl's hand, feeling her warmth for the first time, and smiled._

" _I love you, Mummy. Even if you don't love me," the little girl whispered. Hermione choked a sob, wanting to protest and deny but knew that it wouldn't do any good. It wouldn't alleviate the pain; instead, it'd be a trigger to open all of her closed doors, and Hermione was tired. "And I forgive you…"_

 _The wind blew, and along with it, the little girl dissolved into rose petals that flew past Hermione. The rose petals grazed upon every part of her skin as if reminding her of what she once had but lost. Thrown away. The child in her arms that was once solid and concrete and real had become nothing but a possibility she turned away from._

 _She would've been three years old by now. She would've had red curls and those dark freckles that littered her face like glitter. She would've sounded sweet whenever she called Hermione 'mummy'. And Hermione would've liked that._

 _But she had lost the opportunity to that future._

Hermione woke with the last bit of sunlight casted onto the edge of her windowpane. Her chest heaved—high and low, fast and slow, deep and shallow. She didn't know how it could be; but it felt that way. Hermione knew that her shirt was drenched from sweat and heat. Beads of perspiration trickled down from her forehead, her neck, her chest, her arms, and almost everywhere.

Sitting up, she caught sight of her room. There were small cans of paint sitting on the desk and the chair, the paintbrushes were gathered inside an unused glass, and a large half-finished painting standing near the closet. Her head turned to the side and saw that she, too, was smudged in paint. Her cheeks were bluish as her neck was colored a mixture of yellow and red.

She tried to remember the dream. It wasn't a nightmare nor was it a bad dream; but it was a sad one. The little girl's voice ringing in her ears like a clock on alarm, and she picked her palm to rub her eyes. No, she didn't love the girl. She didn't want the girl; or perhaps, at the time, she thought she didn't want the child.

Did she regret it? Maybe. She wasn't sure anymore.

About a few months ago, she had been certain that she didn't want a child— _the_ child—and that she didn't want to remember what had happened. She was keen on forgetting it until it faded into her unconscious; although, her plan had backfired. She didn't forget then, and now she thought she regretted getting rid of her child.

It was a child, and it shouldn't be punished for the sins of its father. Or its mother.

But could she have survived such pain? Could she look at the child, carry it in her arms, cradle it to sleep, take care of it? No, perhaps not. But it didn't matter because she wouldn't have any means to know now. Her decision had been made, and the consequences were now dragging her under a quicksand faster than she could swim, and she couldn't do anything about it.

Dragging her feet to the edge of the bed down to the floor, Hermione turned her head at the soft sound of a knock coming from her door. She muttered a word of approval before it creaked open, and Luna's head peeked in. A warm smile immediately spread across Luna's face, and asked, "May I come in?"

Hermione nodded.

Luna stepped in. She pushed the door back behind her after and leaned against it. Both of the women fell into deep silence, watching and sensing. Luna wore a pair of dark trousers and half-sleeved yellow blouse with flowers around her collar. Her hair was gathered into a neat ponytail behind her head. She probably just came home from her work early today.

She didn't know why Luna came. But Hermione could take a guess. Luna checked on her before she left for work, or when she came home from work, or when Hermione hadn't left her room for hours, or sometimes for no reason at all—but whatever the reason was, Luna went to visit her room every now and then to remind herself that Hermione was fine.

"How's work?" Hermione asked, ripping off her paint stained shirt. She threw it to the laundry and picked a new one from her closet. Hauling it down her naked torso, she turned back to Luna, who remained still against the surface of her door.

"Just fine. Daphne's somewhere in Austria," Luna said, pressing her lips thinly. "And you? Do you plan to go back to work?"

Hermione didn't raise her head. Ever since what happened on Diagon Alley, Hermione couldn't find the strength to go to work even though she only needed to sit for hours in front of a desk somewhere in the dark corners of Gringotts, sorting papers and being bossed around by goblins until five o'clock. Going to work meant that she had to face the world again; but she wasn't ready yet. So much had happened—changed, in the last few weeks that the pattern that she had been doing in order to survive for three years had been dismantled.

No, she was lost again. All of the control she saved up for three years was gone.

Hermione let out a sigh. She looked at Luna and said, "I don't know. I might quit." She would be lying if she denied that she had been thinking about it. It was never her dream to work for Gringotts. She was ambitious as everyone knew but after her life had been steered rather harshly into another direction, she wasn't the same anymore.

"That's good," Luna smiled. Hermione raised her eyes to meet her friend's, and saw that Luna knew—as much as she did—that it was never her dream. It was never _her_ , to begin with. "I'll be here to support you, whatever you decide. Don't worry about the expenses. I can handle it. Daphne can help. It doesn't matter, because what matters most is that you get better."

Closing her eyes, Hermione felt her chest weighing heavier. She didn't want to be a burden. She had never wanted to feel so helpless and hopeless in her life. She was scared of being incapable of living on her own because it would mean that she was letting go of that last bit of fiber of her old self, and she would be lost forever. But looking at Luna, perhaps it didn't mean that, perhaps it meant that she didn't have to be alone all the time, perhaps it meant that it was okay to ask for help sometimes, and perhaps it meant that she wasn't weak at all.

"I'm sorry," Hermione said, turning back to the window. The sun has finally set, leaving her room in the dark with a little touch of moonlight casted onto her floor but not enough to fill the room.

"What for?"

"For all of this—"

"Don't, Hermione. It was _never_ you, okay?" Luna said, her voice suddenly stern as though she needed to stress the words enough. "I don't want your apologies. I just want you to be okay, that's all." She heard a slight strain of pain in Luna's voice as she talked.

Hermione kept staring at the window. It was unusually quiet outside, and all she could hear was a murmur that came a little over above silence that wrapped them both into an embrace. None of them spoke for a little while. Hermione inhaled—her breathing slow but deep as though not enough air could reach the bottom of her lungs.

Luna said, breaking the quiet, "I saw Ginny today." A pause. Hermione heard a breath, and she was almost sure that it was her own. "She was shopping for baby clothes. We talked."

The next morning after the Christmas ball, the Daily Prophet and several other newspaper companies had published articles regarding the largest party of the year. A particular article struck Hermione's curiosity as Harry Potter was asked what he thought about how Draco Malfoy invited Hermione Granger as his date for the evening, and her former friend unnoticeably flinched at the photograph before refusing to comment further on the subject.

"Did she ask about me?"

Inwardly, she shook her head. She didn't know what made her ask that. She wasn't supposed to care, right? She wasn't supposed to ask what people thought of her. But perhaps, all this time she was wrong. She cared even if it was the last thing she wanted. She even cared about those people she hadn't talked to in a long while. She cared because she hoped that the fickle string that tied her to her past would hold on a bit longer. How long, she didn't know.

"No, but I think she wanted to," Luna replied. "I don't think that they hate you, Hermione. Angry, maybe; but hate, I don't think so. She wants to know what happened. Why you left."

Hermione faced her friend. Her arms crossed, not to keep distance but to provide comfort to her elevated heartbeat for what was to come. This conversation was bound to go somewhere the moment Luna mentioned that she saw Ginny, and she dreaded whatever Luna was about to say next. Hermione asked, "Do you think I could tell her everything? That it was her brother? That I couldn't be around her because I am reminded of my own shame?" She closed her eyes. Tears threatened to fall, yet she managed to fight them back. Her hands curled around her arm tighter as she exhaled.

"They need to know, Hermione. They deserve it," Luna said, quietly.

"I know."

Hermione knew it, even at the beginning. She knew that someday, somehow, they needed to know. That they would know. She couldn't hide from the truth forever. Her secrets would be unfolded soon, and she had been dreading it. For three years, she didn't want anyone to know because it was her secret, her shame, her failure, and it was nobody's business. She stayed clear of the press, away from prying eyes and hid herself in plain sight, and she knew that she could only hide herself for so long.

Hermione cleared her throat and abruptly changed the subject, "Where's Blaise? Is he joining us for dinner?"

Even in the dark, she saw Luna scrunch her face at her question. Luna looked to her side as though there was something more interesting to look at in her closet. Hermione frowned. Before she could ask, Luna said in a low whisper, "He hasn't owled me since the Christmas ball. I haven't heard anything from him since then."

"But that was a week ago, right?"

"I know," Luna smiled. But it was a sad smile, almost forced. "He's probably busy with work. It's nothing."

Hermione knew better than to believe that. She saw how Blaise looked at Luna at the Christmas ball, and his eyes were filled with adoration that they almost sparked right in his eye sockets. It wasn't the first time that Blaise had stopped talking to Luna but these several few months were probably the longest time they hadn't taken a break. She told Luna what she always did, "He'll come around. He always does."

Luna glimpsed at Hermione. Her lips twitching into a tight smile—

The silence was soon interrupted by a soft knock coming from the front door. Both of them looked toward the sound. Luna turned back to flash a brighter smile to Hermione before saying, "I'll have dinner ready in an hour, okay?"

"Will you promise not to cook too much?"

Hermione heard a tiny giggle coming out of Luna's mouth as she walked out. She stood by herself, both of her arms still wrapped around herself in assurance. All her life, she had a plan—study ten weeks before the O. , use polyjuice potion to transform into Millicent Bulstrode, drink whatever was strongest until you drown, fuck until you forget. But Mother of Merlin, how wrong she was. Her plans didn't go as she planned them out. She turned into a cat because she thought that it was Millicent Bulstrode's hair. She had drunk but no amount of alcohol was enough to drown her sorrows. She fucked whoever—whenever and wherever—but she didn't forget.

Breaking out of her reveries, Hermione dragged a pair of used trousers off the floor and wore it. She closed the button and pulled the zipper before pushing her trapped hair under the neckline of her shirt. Taking a short glance around her bedroom, she realized that it was a mess again, but this time, it was a good mess. She didn't have alcohol bottles littering the floor, nor were there crumpled cigarette packets under her pile of dirty laundry; because what she had was books stacked in random piles, a few clothes and shoes, and the tin cans of paint that filled the room a familiar aroma.

Slowly, she walked out. With a short walk, she arrived at the single spacious room that the living room and the kitchen had shared. She looked around—Luna standing in the kitchen while she prepared dinner, and Malfoy sitting on the couch with a glass of pumpkin juice in his hand. Luna looked back once Hermione's footsteps broke the silence that surrounded the room, and she smiled.

Luna beamed, "Hi. Draco will joining us for dinner."

Hermione turned back to the man sitting in their living room. She hadn't seen him as well since the Christmas ball, but unlike Luna and Blaise, they were friends. Just friends. As she looked, Malfoy was looking at her. She pressed her lips into a thin smile before making her way to him. She noticed him lean back against the couch, his shoulders relaxing, and his eyes still following her. He wore a pair of dark slacks and white shirt with its long sleeves pushed back to his elbows.

"What are you doing here?" She asked, as she stood in front of him.

"Visiting," Malfoy smirked. He raised his glass to her and took a sip. He nearly gagged and said, "Salazar, don't you have anything stronger than this?" Setting the glass onto the coffee table, he looked up at her—seeing as she flinched at his question.

Hermione looked away, and said, "I threw away all the alcohol. I haven't had a drink since…"

"Oh. Sorry," Malfoy muttered.

She sighed. Taking a seat on the other couch, Hermione propped her legs onto the cushion and pulled her knees to chest. "Where's Blaise? I haven't seen him in a while," Hermione asked, slightly looking back to Luna but turned back to Malfoy.

Malfoy shrugged, "Dunno. Even I haven't seen him either."

"Don't you work together?"

"Well, yes. But I work mostly at home. He just sends me the files through an owl; but other than that, no, I haven't seen him," he explained. He looked away; but Hermione kept looking. She noticed the faint bags under his eyes. The expression on his face was almost impossible to be read, and he looked as if a million thoughts were running through his mind. When he looked back at her, she looked down to her hands fast enough that she nearly escaped him and heard him say, "I actually came here to give you a Christmas gift, and the one from my mother too, since I don't think I'll be able to visit tomorrow."

He pulled the two boxes sitting on the couch that Hermione had noticed were there. One was a long blue box with a narrow white ribbon tied around it, and the other was a large plain-looking square box—and Malfoy extended the smaller box to her. She inhaled deeply, "But I-I didn't get you anything."

She heard Malfoy snorting, "We didn't exactly talk about giving each other gifts, Granger. Take this as a kind gesture of a friend. We're still friends, right?"

The blue box in her hand was smooth and new. Her thumb edged onto the bottom, and with a heavy sigh, Hermione slowly lifted the lid as though it was the most fragile thing in the world. Inside, there was a long chained necklace with a black pearl as a pendant. The pearl was surrounded by several dark gems. Hermione touched the chain with her finger and looked up at Malfoy, who was watching her, and said, "I don't know what to say…"

Malfoy chuckled, "A 'thank you' would suffice. Or at least, owl my mother. It was her gift." He paused as he kept watching the dark-haired witch sitting across from him. Then he continued, "Would you like me to put it on?"

Hermione lifted her head. Her chocolate-colored eyes found his grey orbs. She tried to mask the surprise in her eyes, replying, "Tell your mother that I appreciate it. But I don't think I can accept this."

"Wear it to show your appreciation, Granger. There is nothing wrong with a bit of accessory," he said—his voice strong and firm as he persuaded her. Malfoy's eyes didn't leave her. Looking back to the necklace lying inside the box, she could still feel his eyes burning on her skin. "Plus, of course, I think that it would look better if you wear it."

Sighing, she picked up the chain with her finger and watched as the pendant swing like a pendulum before she turned to Malfoy, "Will you please help me put it on?"

Malfoy tried to suppress the smirk edging on his mouth but failed. He pushed himself off his seat and went over behind Hermione's couch. Hermione handed him the necklace before proceeding to gather her hair into a thick bundle of frizzy curls, and soon after, the cold chain landed around her exposed skin of the column of her neck.

She shuddered at the contact.

Tilting her head to the right, Hermione realized how close he stood. She could smell the familiarity of his perfume. She inhaled, a soft sound of her breathing in deeply was heard. Malfoy locked the chain, and she could feel his hands slightly agitated. Time seemed to slow as he stood behind her, almost breathing down her neck, and as soon as she closed her eyes, it was over—

"There," Malfoy said. Without a second later, he quickly rounded back to his couch and sat.

Hermione swallowed the gasp that nearly elicited from the back of her throat. Instead, she looked down at the pendant hanging a little over her rise of her breasts. She touched it with her finger and smiled, before turning to Malfoy, "Thank you."

He nodded. His head turned back to the bigger box still sitting untouched next to him before he grabbed it with both of his hands and handed it over. Taking it and settling it over her lap, Hermione didn't think twice about removing the lid, and as soon as she did, a beautiful set of paintbrushes of different variety laid inside it. Under the first layer, there were about sixty tubes of paint that was categorized by shade.

Malfoy said, "Do you like it?"

Hermione breathed in. She could feel the weight that had been dropped to her stomach as she sat, holding the box carefully with both hands. She looked up and flashed a smile at him, "Yes. I didn't… this is wonderful. Thank you."

A second passed, the two of them was drowning in silence again. She only looked at the paint set sitting in her lap. He only watched her, and even if she wasn't looking, she knew. Their silence was then disturbed by a loud, erratic knocking on the front door. Hermione looked back in surprise. She stared at the door as a frown formed on her forehead before she turned to Malfoy, who seemed as curious as she was. A loud bang on the door made all three of them jump—Luna rushing to the front hall, Hermione rushing to open the door, and Malfoy who stood firmly with his hands buried deep into his pockets.

As she neared the door, she held onto the doorknob and pulled it open. Her eyes widened at the sight of a scruffy looking man standing outside. His clothes were disheveled, his thick hair was ruffled into a mess, and his face… the look on his face was pained. But there wasn't enough pain to top the one that Hermione was feeling at that moment, and even for three years, because here was Charlie Weasley hunched over her doorframe.

All the words died in Hermione's throat. Her knees buckled. Her chest tightening until there wasn't any space left anymore for her to breathe. Her gut knotted around each other. Her muscles frigid. Her eyes—Sweet Merlin, her eyes were shimmering with fresh tears. Tears she thought she had finished crying over. Tears she thought had dried long ago—

Hermione stepped back. Her knees gaze out, and she nearly hit the ground when she felt two hands holding her upright. Though she didn't look back, she realized that it was Luna who caught her by the size of her hands. Her eyes were still fixated on the man standing in her doorway who looked as pained as she did at that second, and everything slowed.

The next second was a blur. Hermione felt something brush past her, and looking ahead, she saw Malfoy pushing Charlie against the door by the collar of his shirt with his wand pointed. The blond looked smaller than Charlie, but it didn't seem to matter when he had Charlie pressed onto the wooden surface. Hermione sobbed as she stared at them, and soon Malfoy scowled at the man trapped in his fingers, "You have some nerve, Weasley. Or are you looking to get hexed?"

Charlie struggled, but whatever he was trying to do seemed to fail. He sneered at Malfoy, "I'm not here to talk to you, Malfoy." He looked to the side, to Hermione, and exhaled. "Hermione, I just want to talk to—please, let me talk…" She heard how his voice croaked when he heard her name. She couldn't stop herself from flinching.

What was this feeling? When she saw Charlie in Diagon Alley, what she felt was rage more than anything; but _this_ —this thudding inside her ribcage while she looked at him, she felt nothing but pain. His pain. It was vibrating on her skin, drumming along with the quick beat of her chest, racing with her hurried breaths, and spinning with her head.

She tried to think. All the doors were open. Her mind began to rummage through her memories, and one by one, she remembered. Everything. But in these memories, she was the one burning in pain. What she didn't realize was that he too felt pain. His guilt. His shame. His own failure.

His unbecoming.

Almost the same as hers.

Malfoy leaned, rage boiling under his skin, "What makes you think she'll listen to anything you have to say?" He glared toward the redhead with his other hand gripped tightly onto the wand he was pointing—waiting.

Hermione watched as Charlie leaned his head back onto the doorframe. His head tilted, and a cry escaped his throat. Her heart clenched. He sobbed, and tears fell onto the side of his face. "Hermione, please. I'm so sorry. I—"

"You're three years too late for that," Luna snapped—her own voice on the verge of breaking.

"I know, Hermione. Fuck, please, I just want to talk to her," Charlie pleaded. His words drowning in his own saliva. He looked down to Malfoy, eyes begging him to put him down. But Malfoy didn't; in fact, he pushed him harder onto the wall.

Luna stepped forward. She put herself as a blockade between Hermione and Charlie. Both of her arms held Hermione's figure to keep protected. "No, she doesn't need to talk to you. She has had enough of you to last a lifetime, Charlie. Leave her alone—"

"NO!" Charlie screamed. He shifted to one side, trying to escape Malfoy's hold, but failing, he succumbed into hysterical sobs. "Please… please, forgive me. I'm sorry. I can't… I'm sorry—"

Hermione closed her eyes. Charlie's sobs faded into the back of her head. Against her skin, she could feel Luna twitching in wrath. She could almost hear the inaudible guttural noise coming out of Malfoy's throat as he sneered at Charlie. She could sense her own muscles loosening as her chest resolved into long and deep breaths. Her head continued spinning and throbbing and flashing—

" _Mummy?_ " That little girl's voice came back in a soft whisper. Was this real? Or was it coming from her head? " _Why, Mummy? Why didn't you love me? Was I a bad girl? Did I do something wrong?_ " Hermione stifled a sob and bit her lip so hard that she feared it might bruise. Soon, she could taste blood spreading into her tongue—the metallic taste spilling all over her taste buds. The little girl looked like him—flaming red curls and freckles. The little girl would've been their daughter if she hadn't…

Opening her eyes, her mouth gaped before she choked out a word, "Leave."

Hermione didn't know what happened next. She took a step behind her, and another, and another, until she had made it back to the living room. She recoiled to the nearest wall she could find and supported her back onto it before she could fall. A hand clutched to the shirt she wore, holding the piece of fabric between her palm and pushing her fist against her chest as though she could contain the pain that resided in her body so long in a hand; but it didn't leave her alone.

The pain remained, reminding her of every single day since that night until this night.

Her throat managed to let out a few short sobs. Escaping her lips, she cried. Tears watered down her face, streaming like the unstoppable current of a river. She choked between her sobs. She gagged her words out as she cried hard. Why did she still feel pain? After three years, she thought that it would eventually drain but she was stuck in an endless cycle—reliving the same day, same minute, same seconds repeatedly.

How could she forget? How could she even accept?

Hermione let out a strangled cry. Suddenly, the familiar sensation of soft hands rubbed her arms lovingly, and Luna sat next to her on the floor, holding her together as though her pieces were all crumbling down to bricks. Hermione wailed as she cried, falling deeper into the arms of her friend, and her shoulders were thrashing, and her eyes were sewn shut, and her legs shaking, and her heart—oh Merlin, her heart was breaking.

"It'll be okay. I won't let him hurt you," Luna whispered into her ear.

Hermione sighed as she let out another sob; but this time, she had stopped violently shaking. Hermione's body was limp in Luna's arms, and the two women sat on the floor for another few minutes until Hermione had finally stopped crying. She had ran out of tears to cry. She was beyond exhausted, all of her energy was wasted by simply looking at _him_.

When would this be over?

* * *

 _A/N: Heavy chapter? I know. Anyway thanks for my beta, JularaVon, always awesome; and thanks to my ever-supportive readers. Thoughts? Leave a review. 'Til next time!_


	17. Chapter Fifteen

**Chapter Fifteen**

 **WHEN THAT HAPPENS**

 _December 26, 2001_

 _ **LOVE QUARREL OR LOVE AFFAIR?**_

 _ **By: Rita Skeeter**_

 _It was weeks ago when Charles Weasley and Katie Bell invited us to their nuptials on Christmas Eve this year. But imagine our surprise when Katie Bell announced the cancellation of their wedding yesterday. According to Ms. Bell, her fiance seemed "disoriented and uninterested" which led them to an argument—ending their five-month relationship._

 _In our interview with a heartbroken Katie Bell, she admitted that it was Charlie Weasley who decided to call off the wedding. "I tried to get him to explain to me, but he just won't say anything. He won't even look at me. We were—we were arguing, and he just took off without explaining," she said._

 _Mr. Weasley left the Burrow, where the ceremony was planned to be held, with no words whatsoever. The guests—including the rest of the Weasley family—were confused at this sudden change of mind._

 _Katie Bell mentioned that her fiance has been distant ever since they arrived from Spain. Is this a sign that there might be another woman? Is Mr. Weasley having an affair? If so, who could it be? Where could he be? Could he be with his mistress?_

 _Both Ms. Bell and Mr. Weasley graduated from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Although they were in different years, their eight-year gap didn't matter when they met again in Spain and began dating. Ms. Bell was working for the Department of Regulation and Control for Magical Creatures when she was assigned to a mission in Spain, where she met Charlie Weasley. I attempted to get an interview from Mr. Weasley, but he refused to comment._

 _For further comments, please don't forget to owl us at the Daily Prophet. We would absolutely love to hear your thoughts regarding this._

After reading, Draco threw the latest copy of the Daily Prophet onto the large desk. He leaned against the soft cushion of his seat, letting his head fall back, and stared at the ceiling. He kept his breathing even as he tried to remember the last two days.

The memories came flashing through as a sequence of different images and with each flash, his fingers curled and clenched at his palms, trying to grasp the last bit of control he had in his entire body. No, he wanted to yell at the top of his lungs. Rage was rather a mild term to describe what he felt, no; it was more than that. The tune of his heart vehemently beating inside his chest fueled his nerves with more frustration, blood coursing like an ocean caught in a storm, and the veins at either sides of his temple pulsed in pain.

He admired Charlie Weasley's bravery. The man stumbled—no, staggered into Granger's flat without his wand and asked for amnesty for his mistake as though his fault was taking away Granger's candy. But no, it was her sanity he took. Her innocence. The blood rush in Draco's head made him reckless, that without thinking, he had jumped to grab Weasley's collar and push him hard against the door.

Draco wasn't brave. His actions during the war proved that he would rather recoil into security than do what was morally right. But if Granger hadn't been standing there, he definitely would've hexed that man into oblivion. Why did he care? Why did he care that Granger was there, watching him? No, the right question was: why did he care about her?

She had never asked him to protect her. To come to her defenses whenever the stakes were high, and the currents were strong, and the cliffs were falling apart. No, she had never. But then, he never would've openly offered it anyway. Both of them were too proud to even ask for help from anyone, especially from one another. As strange as it was, the opposite of his expectations were happening, and he couldn't explain it.

 _Fuck it_ , Draco thought as he took a swig of whiskey. The glass had been sitting too long in his hand, resting on the desk, and the drink felt warm going down his throat.

Draco glanced at the paper, which was next to the liquor bottle. A photograph of a dim-looking Charlie Weasley and a cheerful Katie Bell was printed right under the big headline. He remembered how Charlie Weasley shuddered in his hands, shaking violently in between his ugly sobs, crying for Granger to forgive him. He had managed to suppress a snort, a bitter laugh, underneath all of his anger that night. _This article was only the beginning_ , Draco told himself.

Granger still hadn't stopped crying when he left the flat. He wondered if she had finished crying now. It wasn't the first time he'd seen her like this; but Weasley forcing his way back into her life, he wondered if there could've been anything worse. She was shaking, her eyes stared blankly into empty space, and her body refused to function by itself. Luna had asked him to carry her to the couch, and while he'd held her in his arms, he felt the frigidity of her arms and legs as she curled against him like a baby seeking comfort.

He had quietly whispered a hush to her while placing her down on the couch. She didn't uncurl her arms and legs; instead, she'd tightened her hold it as though filling in all the spaces in her body to keep her safe in her tiny, fragile shell. He remembered looking at her with a heavy sigh. Luna, who had been busy wrecking the kitchen, had decided to leave her cooking undone and focus on her friend. Before he left, he had asked Luna if she could keep him updated on Granger's well-being and true to her word, Luna owled him yesterday afternoon. The note still tucked into the warm depth of his pockets, folded and waiting—

A startling crack ripped into the silence that surrounded the drawing room. He turned toward the sound to see one of the house-elves standing timidly at the entrance. "Master Blaise has arrived. Should Timmy let him in?" The elf asked.

Draco stood from his chair, and walked towards the tall arched window. The dim, yet warm light beaming through the glass touched the spot of skin exposed around the collar of his plain white shirt. He craned his head back a little and gave a curt nod before turning back to the window. Behind him, he heard the sound of another crack as the elf disapparated.

Before long, heavy footsteps echoed into the room. A faint image of a tall man appeared on the window glass, and Blaise's voice broke the quiet atmosphere as soon as he entered, "Have you seen the papers yet?"

A sharp pain hit Draco's chest. The air he breathed seemed to be polluted, and he immediately had an itch to smoke again. His tongue salivated, craving for the familiar taste of bitterness. Looking down, his hand wrapped around the nearly finished glass and decided to pour it all down his throat. Inwardly, he cursed himself. He needed more.

"Well," Draco drawled—finally turning to face his guest, "Good morning to you, too, Blaise. I haven't seen you in the last three days. I've been expecting your reports—"

Blaise snorted, "Yeah, I know. Don't be a smartarse. Why did Weasley cancel the wedding?" Draco caught a glimpse of his friend's face. He looked as though he hadn't slept in days; his dark eyes seemed weighed with a mask of emotions and his shoulders were stiff, forced to stay upright. His posture seemed exhausted beyond measure. But Blaise had always been good at hiding his emotions from anyone, including Draco.

Draco walked to the liquor cabinet and set his empty glass onto the tray. He refilled his own, while pouring another for his guest, with whiskey. "I don't know," Draco said sardonically, "Why don't you ask Weasley?" He handed the glass to Blaise and watched as his friend took an immediate sip. He pulled back, sat on one of the couches, still holding his own glass.

"I would, but we're not exactly chums. Besides, I can't promise not to kick his bloody backside if I see him. So that's not really helpful, is it?" Blaise retorted.

Draco hummed in agreement. He grabbed the discarded newspaper from the desk and pretended to read, before he exclaimed, feigning excitement, "Oh, look! There's a new café in Diagon Alley. I'm sure Mother would like to try that—"

"Draco—"

"Blaise," the blond interjected. He raised his head and met his friend's gaze. He couldn't help but raise an eyebrow before continuing, "If you hadn't gone missing, you would know. Have you talked to Luna? She didn't look fine."

Blaise snickered loudly. The guttural sound eliciting from the back of his throat echoed across the drawing room, causing Draco to roll his eyes. "Careful, mate. Some might think you actually care," Blaise remarked, taking another mouthful of his bitter drink.

"You didn't see what I saw, Blaise," Draco insisted. His blood surged in frustration. He twirled the liquor inside his glass, the fluid dancing with the movement of his wrist. From the corner of his eye, he saw Blaise shoot him a wary look. "She was ready to turn the kitchen into a bloody war zone with all the cooking she was doing if Charlie Weasley hadn't interrupted us…"

Blaise looked away. He turned back as though he didn't know where to go.

"In a quarrel again, I suppose?"

"No," Blaise grumbled. Sitting on the opposite couch, Blaise propped both his elbows on his knees before rubbing the bridge of his nose. He sighed in defeat. "I… I haven't talked to her since the ball."

Draco glanced toward his guest. His eyes were closed, and the edge of his jawline clenched under his cheek, giving his face a sharper look. Draco took his time to watch his friend, learning his gestures, and measuring his breathing.

"Well, did you find what you're looking for?" Draco asked. He let a sly smirk curve onto his mouth when Blaise snapped his head quickly. The curl on his mouth broadened as Blaise's eyes narrowed. "This isn't the first time, mate. You're slipping," Draco remarked, followed by a swig. Unconsciously, he took a small packet of cigarettes from his coat pockets. He lit a stick and clipped it between his chapped lips. The burning taste of smoke filled his mouth and he inwardly groaned at how glorious it felt.

Blaise dropped a small velvet box on the desk. The object hitting the wooden surface rang in Draco's ears, catching his attention, and he instantly knew what it was. He glanced at Blaise, who had been watching him intently, waiting in silence, and Draco inhaled another mouthful of smoke down to what was left of his lungs.

"Getting ready to tie knot, then?"

Blaise chuckled in amusement. "I don't need to explain everything to you. That right only goes to Luna." He paused. Breathing. Calculating. Then he went on, "So now that I've told you of my recent endeavors, might you enlighten me about what I missed?"

Drawing a sharp breath, Draco pushed his back harder against the couch as though he wanted to sink even lower. His eyes dropped to his hands—one holding the cigarette, the other holding the glass of cold whiskey. Silence filled the room, and neither of them said a word for a couple of minutes. Their movements shifted from drinking to smoking to leaning back to leaning down; but there were no sounds besides that of their own breathing.

"Charlie Weasley came to Granger's apartment on Christmas Eve," the blond said—shattering the quiet.

"On his wedding day?"

"Yes," Draco replied, "After he canceled it, of course."

Blaise turned. He faced the window and fell back into silence. He dragged the glass back to his mouth and drank the rest of the liquor that was in it. After swallowing, Blaise looked at the blond sitting across him and asked, "Well, what did he want?"

Draco shot a look to his guest and said, "Forgiveness. He begged for forgiveness." His eyes flickered over the embers of his dying cigarette. Ashes fell onto the floor, cracking into tinier bits, and its flames fading into nothing but a thin silhouette of smoke.

"Do you believe him?" Blaise asked, raising an eyebrow.

Grey eyes looked up to dark ones. The pale shade of his irises darkened at Blaise's question; and soon, he broke their contact. He fixed his eyes to look somewhere else—anywhere else—other than his friend. But even if he wasn't looking, he knew, and he felt, that Blaise was still watching him.

Did he? Merlin, he didn't know.

Suddenly, the memory of Weasley's face that night flashed in Draco's mind. His fingers curled into a tight fist as he thought deeper, trying to answer the question, but found himself lost for words. He didn't know. He wasn't sure anymore. It would've been easier if Weasley hadn't said anything, if he didn't come. But he did, and Merlin knew how Draco had wanted to hex Charlie's balls off - but the second before the hex slipped the tip of his tongue, he realized he couldn't.

He just couldn't.

"How is Granger?" Blaise asked, after minutes that seemingly stretched into hours. "Have you owled her yet?"

With the tip of his fingers, he touched the shape of a folded paper tucked in his pocket before dragging it out. The paper shuffled as it slid against the fabric as he handed it over to Blaise. "Luna did. She sent me that yesterday," he said tersely.

Blaise unfolded the paper, and scanned the messy scribbles on it. He refolded it, following the former patterns of its fold, and set it aside without a comment next to the little velvet box.

Since yesterday, Draco had done nothing but replay the words in the back of his head. He'd stare at Luna's words for a few minutes before putting it away again. Draco had taken the letter out many times since receiving it - he'd lost count - and he had already memorized it at this point. He still kept searching though, in a desperate attempt to find some sense of security or satisfaction in between those letters, those spaces, those words…

But he didn't. He didn't find anything. It was just a simple letter: _Draco, she's fine—if not better. But I've managed to calm her down. She stopped crying. Come by when you can. She might not talk to you; but I do think she'd appreciate it. Luna._

Blaise asked, "Has he told the press?"

Draco sighed, relief surging through his bloodstream, but he remained stiff in his seat. He dropped the cigarette after he crushed its burning end on an ashtray. A thin veil of smoke billowed before it finally faded.

"No," Draco said, shaking his head, "That might be the only thing I'm thankful for."

"She won't make it if that happens."

"When," Draco corrected. " _When_ that happens."

Blaise leaned forward from his seat. His eyes darted carefully over his friend's angled face, before he asked, "Do you think everyone will know? She managed to keep it to herself for three years. Nobody knew what happened. Hell, even Luna didn't—"

"Didn't really help her, did it?" Draco snapped, feeling rather annoyed in this conversation. He knew, all too well, from his own experience that all secrets were meant to be uncovered at some point. No, nobody could hide anything at all. He sighed, "She was already breaking before we met her, Blaise. She faced it all by herself, and Merlin knows how much longer she could continue to do so. Perhaps it might help her if someone knew. Not everyone is entitled to know, of course, but she has to admit that even she has her own limits."

A quiet pause.

Blaise asked, "Think she'll make it?"

With a hand grasping the bottom of his glass, Draco wrapped his lips delicately onto the curved rim before taking a long sip, savoring the flavor. He let the bitterness soak his mouth a little bit longer, before swallowing it down his throat. He replied, "She has to." Blaise arched a brow. "She's Granger. That woman is a force of nature—oozing with Gryffindor courage and all that crap."

"Not this Granger," Blaise argued. "You've seen her, Draco. You know her better than Luna, even. And there is a likely possibility that she might not."

He had a point, and Draco couldn't deny it. The Granger that he knew now wasn't the same Granger he'd known back in Hogwarts. He knew that she might not survive this trauma when the rest of the Wizarding world knew about it. But no, Draco didn't want to think about it. He didn't want to acknowledge the fact that she might not make it. She _has_ to. Because he _needed_ her to make it.

Merlin's _fucking_ saggy balls. What the _fuck_ was happening to him?

Inwardly, Draco groaned, pushing his thoughts far away. He saw Blaise send him a narrow look; a small smirk curled around the corner of Draco's mouth. "So optimistic, Blaise," he mocked.

"And you're not really known for your optimism, Draco," Blaise huffed. "So don't bullshit me, mate." Draco rolled his eyes in response. Blaise laughed-a loud, booming noise that filled the drawing room.

Suddenly, the two men turned their heads toward the entrance at the sound of a soft, yet firm cough—and saw Narcissa Malfoy standing elegantly at the archway. She had a glint her eyes and sly pressing smile on her dark red-coated lips. Both of her hands clasped in front. Her weight shifted onto her left foot while the other bent slightly by the knee.

Narcissa broke the silence, "Oh dear. I hope you're not drinking whiskey again at this early hour. It's only ten in the morning." Blaise let out an audible snicker. He looked back at Draco—who had a scathing look on his face. Narcissa continued, "Good morning, Blaise. I haven't seen you in a while." She stepped inside the room, and the patterned sound of her footsteps echoed in Draco's ears.

"Narcissa," Blaise acknowledged her presence. He stood and planted a soft peck on Draco's mother's left cheek, before sitting back down, "It's really lovely to see you again."

His mother chuckled at that. Draco rose from his seat to get another drink. He heard, "Always a charmer, I see. How's your mother?"

"Oh you know, still on her honeymoon somewhere in the Caribbean," Blaise shrugged with a hearty laugh. He leaned back on the plush couch he was seated on as Draco returned with two half-full glasses of whiskey and handed one to Blaise. Blaise waved a hand to refuse the offer and said, "No, I think I've had enough. I think it'll be better to stay sober when I visit Luna later."

Draco shrugged, placing the rejected drink on the desk.

"See?" Narcissa huffed, in her knowingly tone. "At least, Blaise knows how to control his liquor."

"No, Mother," Draco remarked, "He simply doesn't want to visit to his angry girlfriend's flat half-assed drunk and lose all his reflexes to dodge the hexes thrown at him." He turned to Blaise who laughed loudly. "And _you_ really need to see Looney; lest her flat become an apocalyptic mess before you can even propose."

"Draco!" Narcissa hissed at her son. Then she cooed at Blaise, "Oh, Blaise! You're proposing?"

"Yes, I am. Soon," Blaise widened his smile. He grabbed the little box sitting on the desk and pocketed it. "And he's right. I really must go and visit Luna now." Looking sideways to Draco, he only shook his head at the sight of Draco arrogantly smirking at him.

"Why, you're not joining us for lunch?"

"Perhaps another time," Blaise said. "I promise to visit as soon as possible. So long as Draco doesn't drown me with paperwork at the office."

Draco huffed, rolling his eyes for the nth time.

Narcissa sighed before flashing a sad, defeated smile, "Oh, fine. Have at it, then. How about dinner after the New Year's? Bring your fiancée—"

"—assuming she says yes, and he's still alive by the time he proposes," Draco interjected, before taking a small sip of his drink. The aroma filled his lungs like smoke; the smell was intoxicating. Like her hair—the familiar scent of rosemary and lemons… and…

 _Fuck_ , he cursed. His hand gripped tighter around the glass. His knuckles turned whiter. His breaths raced, quick and uncontrollable.

"Oh, hush," Narcissa scolded her son, and went on, "I'd like to meet her properly and chat. I'm sure she'd like to hear a few childhood stories of you. You've spent enough time in this house to earn several embarrassing stories as much as Draco did…"

"Should I be scared?" Blaise asked. He smiled—a hint of casual amusement swirled in his dark eyes. He kept smiling as he pressed a soft kiss on Narcissa's cheek and said, "I'll see you around, Narcissa. Have a good day. You, too, Draco." He nodded toward the blond man nestling his third glass of whiskey in his hand, smirking, eyes glinting, and left without another word.

Once Blaise had left, Narcissa sent her son a sharp look. Her glare burned through Draco's forehead, but he only looked at his mother casually. With the snap of her fingers, a house-elf apparated right next to her and she politely asked for a glass of red wine. "Must you be so rude, Draco?" Narcissa drawled as she took Blaise's seat.

The house-elf returned with her drink a moment later. Her hand cradled the curve of the wineglass, and he watched as the blood-red wine swirling gracefully along with the movement of her wrist.

Draco snickered, "I always am. Is that really a surprise?"

"Well, I don't remember raising you that way, and I resent that," his mother commented. She took a drink from her own glass. Her eyes wandered across the room as though it was the first time she had seen this place. Draco looked at his mother from the corner of his eye, waiting.

"So, what was it you were talking about?"

Draco shrugged, "Nothing. Just business."

Narcissa hummed, partly disbelieving. She sat on the couch with the wineglass in her hand, her ankles locked together, her knees pressed against each other, her back straight and firm, and her eyes staring out of the window like Draco had been earlier. He watched his mother. She sat in silence; the kind of silence that made Draco's skin itch in irritation.

"Mother, this silence is dreadful. Ask whatever it is that you want to ask," he finally said, annoyed.

"Is it about the news in the Daily Prophet?"

His eyes twitched, widening, as soon as he heard that question. How did she… He didn't know, or perhaps he did know but he only refused to acknowledge it. His wide eyes slowly narrowed before sneering, "Oh, of course, you heard us. Biggest gossip in the whole Wizarding world, you are."

His mother laughed, "Really, Draco. If you really didn't want me to hear, you could've silenced the room."

"Well, I didn't think that my mother would be nosy enough to eavesdrop on her son's business," Draco said defensively. His frustration swelled in his chest which made it harder for him to breathe.

"Really, Draco," Narcissa chuckled, "It's only me. Who am I going to tell?"

"For one—your other gossipy friends." Sighing, Draco set his glass back onto the desk and caught a look at the moving photograph printed on the front page. He turned back to his mother and said, "It isn't any of your business, Mother. It isn't even ours—"

"Why, then, were you talking about it?"

"Because we were both dragged in before either of us could protest. The currents are rather strong, Mother. We didn't have a choice," he snapped. _Didn't he?_ He sighed again, realizing the heaviness that filled all of the spaces in his ribs and underlying muscles.

One of his mother's brows rose, and she asked, "Is that why you care so much about Ms. Granger?" A pause. Draco glared until his eyes were nothing but slits. But the smirk that made her face look so elegantly smug didn't falter. She continued when Draco didn't say anything, "Not that I'm against her, of course. I am simply intrigued as to how she managed to catch your attention over the hundreds of women fawning over you."

"Mother, please—"

"Oh, _please_! The way you were looking at her at the ball was evidence enough that you care for her. Merlin, you looked so protective of her," his mother laughed at that thought of that evening. Draco couldn't help but roll his eyes. "You deserve to be happy, Draco," she commended in her soft, soothing voice.

Draco looked away. His face heated as blood began to rush to it—whether of intense frustration or embarrassment, he wasn't entirely sure. He gulped another large mouthful of whiskey. The warm liquid cascading down his throat to his stomach soothed him. He wanted to drown the sound of his mother's voice in his head with alcohol.

"Are you still in love with that girl? That Greengrass girl?"

Oh, Merlin. Draco's fist wrapped around the glass tighter as though he wanted to crush the object with his grip. He exhaled exasperatedly and growled, "Mother, please…"

"—you were never going to work. Too many differences. So few similarities. Opposites don't attract, my dear, and you know that—"

"I am _not_ in love with Astoria," Draco hissed, raising his voice louder. Narcissa sighed, sipping from her glass of wine. His hand loosened around the glass, and he began to spin with around his fingers, playing, biding his time. He continued, "that was over began it even began…"

"Then, why did you even date her? Malfoys don't date for fun. Malfoys date in preparation for marriage," Narcissa said snidely. She raised an eyebrow, sending him a knowing look; this was an argument that had begun months ago.

Draco shrugged, not sure how to answer her question.

It wasn't the first time he had been asked that question. He had pondered the reasons why he even asked Astoria to a date, why he had stayed, and why he hadn't left before it stretched to eight months of nothing but misery. His mother was right; they were not meant to be together. He wished he had seen it easily as everyone had.

Narcissa leaned to touch her son's free hand and pressed her red lips into a thin smile, and said softly, "I want nothing but your happiness, son. You deserve it more than anyone else."

He huffed, rolling his eyes, "People would have to disagree with you on that. They still want to put me in a cell right next to my beloved father in Azkaban."

"Oh, Draco. Stop it. Self-pity doesn't really suit you," his mother scoffed, finishing the rest of her wine. As she downed her drink, she set the empty glass on the desk before leaning back on her seat. "I thought it was that Ron Weasley who dated Ms. Granger?"

"He did," Draco said, casually.

"Well, why were you talking about her and that Charlie Weasley? Last I heard, he's off to marry that Bell girl," Narcissa asked, her eyebrows furrowed into a deep frown. She stopped for a moment. Then, a loud gasp escaped her throat as though realization finally washed over her. "Was Rita right? Was Charlie Weasley having an affair? With Ms. Granger—"

"Mother, please," Draco pleaded. His voice sounded soft. His eyes closed as he tried to drown the memories of that evening to the deepest part of his mind. "Drop this now—"

"But, Draco—"

"MOTHER!" Draco yelled, standing and towering over his mother. The glass dropped from his hand, the last of the whiskey spilling across the soft carpet. Narcissa recoiled, staring wide-eyed at her son.

Draco began to pace around the spacious drawing room. His chest began to pound rapidly. His hands were itching to punch something; but he shook them violently as if he could shake his anger away, failing miserably. He sighed—grasping some control of his breathing, of his emotions, of his thoughts. He looked at his mother, who still hadn't processed what had happened in the last two minutes, and let out a sigh.

With a heavy chest, he stepped in front of Narcissa and said calmly, "It isn't mine to tell. It is not my secret, so _please_ , I _beg_ you not to push me. It's Granger's, and she doesn't want anybody to know. I wasn't even supposed to know; but for some ridiculous reason, she chose to tell me. If she wanted someone to know, the whole Wizarding world would've already known what a slimy git Charlie Weasley is. He is not a good person, Mother. That is all I can say." He took a deep breath. But the heaviness in his chest didn't subside. "Mother, you have to promise me that you won't gossip about this. Whatever we talked about right here, in this room, in this moment, will not be spoken to another human being. Not to any of your friends—no matter how much you trust them. Not to the press. Not to Granger. _No one_ , Mother. Is that understood?" Draco explained. His eyes fixed on his mother's, searching for an assurance, clarity, empathy, and most of all, and comprehension.

Narcissa sighed, "Of course. You have my word."

Once he heard it, Draco turned to his heel and left the drawing room. He didn't look back to his mother, or to the spilled whiskey on their carpet, but he allowed his feet to drag him upstairs. His chest was heaving with exertion by the time he reached the door to his bedroom, and as he entered, he waved his wand to silence the room before turning to the nearest wall with such fury in his eyes.

He lifted a hand, closing the distance between his fist and the wall. One, two, three—he started to feel his knuckles aching. Blood smudged over the spot he had been punching for about five minutes. Growling, anger fueled his body to keep on punching hard as though he was punching something else.

How he wished it could've been Charlie Weasley's face.

* * *

 _A/N: Here's a little treat for you, guys. Apologies for the late update. So much thanks for these awesome betas: **haydensister** and **jularavon**. Thank you for reading! 'Til next time!_


	18. Chapter Sixteen

**Chapter Sixteen**

 **GRENADES**

 _December 31, 2001_

With a heavy sigh, Hermione took a sip from her warm tea and savored the bitter liquid swimming inside the cavern of her mouth. The cool December air blew toward her; goosebumps dotted her exposed skin as the chilling breeze began to freeze her senses. The cold sensation prickled along her spine, which caused the hair on the back of her neck to rise. She'd settled for the tea—hoping to keep her warm and bitter enough. The taste wasn't remotely the same; however, Hermione knew it was better than nothing.

She watched the steam rising from her tea, curling and fading into thin air. The aroma from the tea floated into her nose, slowly filling the spaces in her lungs, expanding like the smoke from a dying cigarette. She missed it: the taste, the warmth that spread through her muscles, the smell of nicotine, the way her lips touch the end of her stick. Cigarettes were the thing she missed the most and wished she could still have, but couldn't. The craving was so familiar, her mouth started to water for something; a smoke, a drink, a strong sensation to dull her thoughts.

She craved alcohol, and that fiery sensation melting down her chest. The alcohol was strong enough to drown out her thoughts, to numb the pain she has been hiding from, and to keep her drunk enough so she couldn't think straight. It kept her company when she didn't want to be alone, and warm when the chill in her spine was too intolerable.

And, of course, she missed sex—the rough hands gliding her body, all of the sloppy kisses along every inch of her, and how their cocks made her feel complete, and loved, and beautiful, even for only five fucking minutes. It gave her control over her body by learning to manipulate men, wrapping them around her little finger, and moving them like her puppets.

She missed everything.

Her train of thought shattered at the faint sound of footsteps descending down the stairs. She looked up as Helena Granger reached the last step and let out an exasperated breath, holding a large box in her thin arms. Her mother looked old, yet beautiful despite her growing wrinkles and greyish hair; and Hermione wondered if she'd look the same when she reached her mother's age.

No, not when. _If_ —if she reached her mother's age.

This wasn't exactly how she pictured spending her New Year's Eve. Well, if things had stayed the same over the past three months, she would've stayed in London. She liked crashing into bars, drowning her liver in ghastly-tasting alcohol, smoking her lungs out, and shagging in some of the darkest alleys across London; and she would've _liked_ it.

That was… if things hadn't changed.

But things did change; and in the course of three months, things had changed _drastically_. Her nightmares turned into reality as her long-kept secrets began leaking into the open, as if through a small hole in a box where she'd stored them safely—as safe as she thought they were, at least.

She was only here because Blaise had asked Luna to attend a private New Year's party with him in Cannes a few days ago. She'd been reluctant to agree, developing a feeling of protectiveness over Hermione ever since Charlie's surprise visit, but at some point, she finally caved. Yesterday after Luna had left, Hermione had glanced around their empty flat and the ice-cold realization dawned on her that she was utterly and dreadfully lonely.

She'd fought that familiar, overwhelming surge of emotion for years, with desperate attempts to drown her feelings with whatever she could reach. Bottle of alcohol hidden inside the cabinet of her nightstand, or a small pack of cigarettes scattered across her unmade bed, or prescription pills in orange bottles, or strange men salivating at the sight of her legs like some rabid dog craving for some meat. She'd indulged her needs, their needs, to keep her head above water… and survive.

Survive. Well, that was the perfect term to describe what she'd been doing for years; but she'd never openly admitted that to anyone. But without those, she was nothing but an empty shell of a woman, clinging tight to that thin shred of hope that somehow those things could make it all better; but they didn't. In fact, they'd only made her hopes sink deeper into the void, almost too impossible to be saved.

Just like her.

Three hours after Luna left, Hermione decided that she has had enough of pretending that she was all right by herself. She wasn't. At least if she couldn't admit to anyone, she could admit it to herself. She could lie and deny the truth; but she'd only be incredibly stupid to try. So she packed and took the train to her little hometown.

She wasn't sure how long she'd been looking out to the street as though she'd been waiting for something, or someone, to come in and drag her out; but at the faint sound of her mother's voice, she looked up and saw the expectant look on her mother's face. Hermione blinked.

"What?"

"I asked what you want for dinner," Helena repeated. Slowly, she folded her arms and leaned her shoulder against the wall to her left while still waiting for an answer.

Hermione sipped her tea, the lukewarm liquid swimming inside her mouth, and she tried so hard to focus on how bitter it tasted, but her thoughts kept on drifting.

"No," Hermione said, "I'm not really hungry."

"You haven't eaten all day. You've only had tea," her mother said pointedly.

"I'll eat later," Hermione said, trying to steer the conversation towards something that wasn't entirely depressing, but the disbelieving look on her mother's face showed she wasn't convinced. Groaning, she continued, "I'm fine, Mum. I'm just not in the mood for anything solid right now."

"Are you okay?" Helena asked. Hermione avoided her mother's gaze and went on to drain the last of her tea. "Are you ill? Stomachache? Toothache? I have some medicines in the upstairs bathroom—"

No, she didn't feel sick. She wished that it was something as simple as a toothache; but the ache throbbing through all her muscles wasn't caused by any physical ailment. She felt tired, beyond exhausted, and if there was another way to name it, she didn't know. What she wanted was easily achievable, but if she tried to sleep, she would've laid on the mattress for hours, staring at the ceiling as if it were the most interesting thing she'd seen.

"You've been quiet since yesterday—"

"—I'm always quiet, Mum," Hermione interjected.

"I know," Helena agreed, or _not_ , "but you haven't always been quiet. You used to be so lively, you loved to talk about anything. School, friends, and pretty much everything in your life. And now you don't talk about them anymore…"

"Because nothing ever stays the same," Hermione snapped, feeling the tension in her shoulders increase with every word. "Things change. _People_ change, Mum."

Her eyes shut, she wanted so badly to just disappear into thin air, or be swallowed by the couch that she was currently seated on. She forced her mother's voice out of her head. But instead of gaining peace, old memories resurfaced, reminding her of those feelings she'd been trying to bury. The alcohol had been enough to keep them quiet for an hour or two, but her recent sobriety had allowed the impact of her nightmares to feel like an earthquake to her mind.

"—your father would've wanted to know why. I—"

Something clicked in the back of Hermione's mind, like a branch snapping; she turned sharply to the woman standing by the kitchen doorway and huffed angrily, " _Christ_ , Mum! Dad's not here. He's been dead for almost two years. Stop using him as a bridge to relate to me. Give _him_ a rest." She glared at her mother, not realizing that her pulse had quickened.

Helena responded by straightening her posture in surprise. She unfolded her arms from her chest, moving away from the wall, as if she had no idea what to say to that. No, she definitely had no idea what to say to that—Hermione knew.

"We just wanted to help," Helena said, obviously not giving up.

"You can't help, Mum; and Dad's gone—so, he isn't going to be much help, is he? No one would understand." Inwardly, she scolded herself for still talking when all she wanted was to stop this conversation. But her mouth seemed to be a dysfunctional machine which couldn't stop talking. She bit her tongue and swore that she could've tasted blood from how hard she clamped her teeth on it. "Some truths are better left unsaid. Not everyone is entitled to know…"

"BUT I'M YOUR MOTHER!" Helena yelled—a wave of desperation washing over her. Hermione's face didn't seem to falter; in fact, she looked even more defiant. Despite the distance between the two women, a wave of claustrophobia caused her chest to constrict with panic. After a heavy sigh, Helena said softly, "I _deserve_ know what is going on in your life."

Hermione slammed the teacup back down on the coffee table with such force that she feared the bottom might've been cracked. "You're _right_ , Mum. Except this is my life. Only I get a say about what you should or should not know. Not Harry, not Ron, and especially not you," Hermione argued. She rose from the couch to look her mother in the eye, trying to prove her point.

"Is this about your friends?" Helena asked, her voice cracking with emotions. "Harry? Or Ron? You don't talk about them anymore. You used to be best friends—"

Hermione couldn't help but flinch at the sound of their names. Hearing it made the throbbing in her brain quicken and strengthen as though a screw had been unbolted and everything else was falling apart. Looking away, she knew that her mother noticed.

"Did they hurt you?"

Merlin, stop. She wished that was what happened. It would've been easier to ignore them, to not look at them, to blame them for whatever their faults were—but it wasn't. No, they didn't hurt her. There was nothing to blame, and that was what made it harder for her to ignore them, to pretend that they didn't exist at all.

"If they hurt you, Hermione, I swear to God, I—"

"WHAT, THEN? You're going to hurt them too?!" Hermione shouted. She could feel the blood rushing through her cheeks, her neck, and everywhere else; but she continued to yell. "They didn't hurt me! _I_ hurt them! _I_ hurt _me_! It was me who… who stopped talking to them. Because I can't look at them and… and not—"

With a pause, she grasped for the right words; but there were no right words to form a lie—a _better_ lie—that would seem plausible because the truth was the _right_ one. It was there, hanging at the tip of her tongue, threatening to slip out. She faced her mother with a red face and said, "You know, Mum. Just shut up, okay? Stay out of it. I don't want to _ever_ talk about it—"

Impulsively, Hermione hurried to the front hall. She grabbed whatever she could reach, and said quickly, "I'm heading out," before leaving. The last thing she heard was her mother calling after her; but the sound died as soon as she slammed the door shut.

.o.O.o.

She concluded that London would've been a better place to grab a drink in a pub. Or at least, London had better pubs than the one she was in at that moment.

After she left her mother's house, she didn't know where to go. She spent about ten minutes walking aimlessly until she found a small, crowded pub on the corner around twelve blocks from her street. She hadn't drank in weeks, and despite her better judgment, she entered. She'd been holding out for so long, and she was tired of ignoring her urges. The strong stench of alcohol immediately lit her senses on fire, burning through layers and layers of muscle, and she was too weak, too exhausted, to fight against it.

Hermione sat at the bar, with her legs crossed as she leaned forward onto the counter. She propped her elbows up on the bar while she traced the rim of her glass with her finger. The noise in the pub was loud—too loud for her liking, but loud enough to keep her thoughts at bay. She didn't know how long she'd been sitting there—perhaps too long. She let the noise of people talking and laughing and celebrating the arrival of the new year surround her, but she _felt_ different.

She wasn't celebrating. She mourned, waiting for that new year to fuck-up the same way she fucked-up all those years ago. Having a drink, she thought, was the best way to fuck up a new year because drinking led to more fucked-up things to do. She'd probably have a terrible hangover in the morning but at least she had fun in the process.

Slowly, Hermione glanced across the pub. It was flooded with Muggles she had only met ten minutes ago and despite her intense dislike for crowds, she didn't mind. The noise helped her push her thoughts away. The euphoria that surrounded her almost lifted her spirit up as well, and perhaps that was alright even if it was only an almost. She could've hoped for a better way to celebrate this dreadful holiday but with her first option, she'd pick this one again.

She'd been waiting for something to smash the protective wall she'd enclosed herself in, and the conversation she narrowly escaped earlier had been a sledgehammer to the strong foundation she'd built. The ground had been shaken, she could feel it at the tip of her fingertips as they traced the rim of her glass nervously.

What was she nervous about? She didn't know.

She'd managed to keep herself in control of her life for three years. Her sacrifices were agonizing, of course, but seeing her old _friends_ look at her like everyone else did, she couldn't take it anymore. She'd taken blow after blow for so long that she knew she'd break at some point. But how much longer would she last? She was already losing control of her body, and soon she'd finally lose control of her life.

It was only a matter of time.

And time was her greatest enemy because it was unpredictable, uncontrollable, and a complete and utter bitch. Sometimes, time would play by Hermione's rules, but time could also turn its back without even any hint of remorse. Hermione had hoped, against her better judgment, that she could keep the trauma to herself. This was _her_ secret after all. She would take it to her grave if she could, if time would let her. But deep down, her rationality knew that all secrets were meant to be uncovered at some point.

She had been waiting for it to happen. She knew that she'd have to wait for a little bit longer, but what she didn't know was for how long. The only certain things was that she had to wait.

People had begun to ask questions that she wished she didn't have to answer. But as much as she felt the need to protect them from the truth, she knew that keeping it to herself was doing more damage than admitting what had gone wrong. What she'd done wrong. But, she thought, was it wrong? To cling onto that secret as if it was so precious and delicate that if people knew, they'd destroy it? Some people had a lot of ways of dissecting truth, disassemble it into pieces, and put them back together to fit their own version of truth.

She'd wished she wouldn't have to tell them.

The truth—in its bitter and raw form—would kill them. But most importantly, it would kill her.

Hermione grasped the bottom of her glass. She lifted it close to her lips, smelling the all-too-familiar scent of alcohol, and held it there. Inhaling, she shut her eyes and indulged her senses with the aroma. Soon, she heard a distant sound of a deep voice resonating in the back of her head. She looked up to see the bartender standing behind the counter with a smirk playing along his lips.

She raised an eyebrow, "What?"

"You don't seem to like the drink," the man said.

"Oh?" She held his eye contact as she parted her chapped lips and took her first sip. The burning taste melted along the insides of her mouth, the fiery warmth of the liquid filled her belly like gasoline, and the buzzing noise in her head began to wane. Setting the glass down, she asked, "How about that?"

"Better. I was beginning to think you didn't like it," the bartender replied. He started to wipe a clean glass with his towel. He stayed in front of Hermione's as though he meant to continue the conversation. "So no date on New Year's?"

Hermione huffed, "No. Not really my thing."

"Really?" The bartender asked, taking the turn to raise his eyebrow. She looked at him, realizing how pretty he was. His dark hair was tangled in an alluring kind of mess. His shoulders were broad, filling his shirt with thick muscles. He looked taller than her, towering over the bar. The color of his eyes were sky-blue, but the bar lights reflecting his eyes provided a luminescent glow and highlighted his dark pupils. "What _is_ your thing, then?"

"Drink," Hermione said, took a mouthful, "Until there isn't anything else left to drink."

The bartender finished drying the last glass. He extended his hands on the counter, his hands gripped tightly on the edge, as though he wanted to show off his arms. She noticed a sly smirk on his lips as he said, "Hm. How about… we get out of here? I just finished my shift."

Her eyes twinkled but she tried to suppress the smile edging on her mouth, "What makes you think that I don't have any plans for tonight?"

Propping her arms on the counter, she leaned closer to give him a perfect view of her plump breasts. She let her dark curls falls forward on her shoulders, which she knew gave her face a better shape. She smirked, knowing that her trick had him worked up. She could hear a soft growl leave his throat as she inched further in. He said with a tight grin, "Well, I'm hoping you don't… Do you?"

His eyes glanced from her face to her body. The lust in his eyes were amplified, almost as though he already finished undressing her with his gaze. She let out a soft giggle, "Sure."

This was control, and it was a basic necessity to survive. She needed sex almost as much as she needed alcohol. She needed to be in control again. She needed to snatch the reins away from life and steer the way toward her satisfaction, doing whatever it took to prevent herself from feeling pain.

This was control—how he'd pushed her against the wall in the alley alongside the pub. Her back landed hard but this time the ache that penetrated her muscles was immediately replaced by the pleasure she felt in her core. How they'd gotten to this point was a blur, from talking at the bar to fucking somewhere next to the dumpster. He attacked the curve of her neck with his mouth, nipping and licking, covering her skin with saliva like how _he_ used to mark her—

 _Him_. The memories began to fill the empty tank she reserved to be filled with pleasure and bliss and Hermione began to remember again. Why wouldn't her memory of him leave her alone? She could remember him in every little thing she did, no matter how big or small; he was always present, breathing down her neck and laying claim to her.

That she was his.

But she didn't want to be his. That was the reason she'd been fucking every man she could find. She wanted to reclaim herself from him, to be free of the invisible shackles he'd chained her with; she didn't want to be his property anymore. She no longer wanted to feel like land that he'd bought and claimed, that he could plant with whatever seeds he wanted to sow.

She could feel his hands gliding over her body, the same hands that traced familiar patterns across the tight corners of her body, finding the spaces that only he could find. She could feel his erect member pressed hard on her inner thigh, the same dick that finally took that final claim on her body, her _self_ , her entire being. She could feel his mouth dragging across every spot of her skin that he'd missed to remind her that he was the only one who could kiss her this way—

No, _stop_! Hermione held the man's shoulders, tried to push him back, but the weight of his body crashed into her own. She was quickly losing her sense of control over a situation she thought she could handle. He grunted as he let his hands travel down to her pulsating core. He groaned as he slipped his fingers to part her folds. He moaned as he got closer to fulfilling his lustful desires—

"No," Hermione mumbled. She pushed him back; but he pushed himself further in. "Stop!" She attempted to wriggle out of his grip, his embrace. But he didn't. He didn't back off. Instead, as his fingers caressed her clit, his other hand wrapped aggressively around her neck, cutting off a breath she was about to release. "I said, GET THE FUCK OFF—"

The man staggered back. Hermione pressed herself back onto the wall, her hands grasping at the roughness, trying to keep her upright and steady. She'd wasted whatever remained of her energy to disconnect herself from his hold and she could barely breathe. Her chest felt like it was about burst from how hard her heart pounded in her ribcage. Her blouse was disheveled, making her look as fucked-up she felt. Her ears buzzed as though she had that familiar noise as though she'd hit her head on something concrete; she wished she had.

No, this wasn't control. She'd lost it.

Hermione looked at him. His face—for a second, she thought he was Charlie. Red hair and dotted freckles. But no, he wasn't. He was different, perhaps the same as all those other men she shagged, but he was too different from Charlie. She met his gaze. His face flushed in pain or anger, she couldn't tell, and he looked at her as though he'd just realized that he'd fallen into a dangerous trap.

The only thought that ran through her mind was: Why did she think of _him_?

"What, did you think we'd go out on a date or something?" He let out a bitter laugh—and everything else seemed to fade. While he ran a hand through his dark hair, she noticed that his light-colored eyes had turned terrifyingly darker. He moved closer, eyes narrowed and fists clenched, and a threat vibrating off his movements. "Such a _fucking_ prude," and he stomped off.

Hermione stilled. She leaned her head back, her chest constricting as though there were a belt tightening around her torso, squeezing organs and muscle and bone until there was no more space to breathe. Her heart swelled in pain. Quiet whimpers began to escape her as she slowly slide down the wall to sit next to the dumpster. Her muscles convulsed, the trauma finally catching up her after minutes—years—of hiding away.

The next hour became a blur. She knew that she'd left the dark alley and for about half an hour she just walked aimlessly. Her feet dragged her from street to street unconsciously. Her mind wandered across the deepest corners of her thoughts. Her body had finally stopped shaking violently, coming to stillness as she walked. Her eyes stared blankly, clouded with so much thoughts and memories that she had fought to forget.

How would she forget? She'd done things— _terrible_ things—to bury these feelings, these bad memories, and while she succeeded to suppress everything else, that night was the only memory she couldn't.

She'd learned to forget everything else. She used her hands to push them down—that girl she used to be, the warm smile on her father's face, the aloof atmosphere that had once surrounded her mother, the laughter she'd shared with her friends, the euphoria that Ron had filled her with. _Oh, Ron_ , she whimpered when she began remembering the memories she'd tried so hard to suppress.

The night she left Hogwarts, Hermione had convinced herself to look away from his face, terrified that she wouldn't be able to see him as the same man she loved. Ron looked so much like _him_. Both had the same hair, the same eyes—and she'd only hate him. She loved Ron, and if there was anything she couldn't bear, it was to hate him. So she didn't look. She remembered feeling that desire to ran back and throw her arms around him and beg him not to let her go and how hard she fought to keep herself from breaking.

She'd loved him since she'd met him on the train that afternoon and as she grew up, Hermione had made space for him— _them_ —in her dreams, hoping that someday they'd be together until the end. She couldn't count the times she had imagined herself marrying him, bearing his children, and achieving her happy ending. But she couldn't, not now, not after that day at the clinic when the doctor told her that she'd… she'd lost the ability to carry a child again.

And so, she hated Charlie Weasley for _that_ —for taking her away from people she loved, for erasing any chance she had for a _normal_ life, for reducing her into nothing but meat, for claiming, invading and hurting her, and for making her believe that no one else would dare to love her.

Hermione passed by a sidewalk. In front, a group of drunk men walked toward her direction. She heard a low whistle, followed by someone saying, "Hey, babe, wanna have a go?" Someone let out a deep, throaty laugh. She half-dragged herself forward, not glancing to their direction, and as she made it past them, she heard someone make kissing noises behind her.

She kept walking.

There was a hollow pit in her stomach, a hole she couldn't fill no matter how much alcohol she drunk, no matter how many cigarettes she smoked, no matter how many dicks she took in her mouth—she couldn't fill that hole just as she couldn't forget him.

As the air grew colder, her senses started to function properly again. She forced herself to blink, refocusing her eyesight to see through the darkness that wrapped around her like a blanket. Grass grew around the pavement she was walking on, and as she reached the first headstone, she finally realized where her feet had taken her. Looking up, she saw hundreds of different-sized gravestones lined up in neat rows that led up to a high slope. That feeling in her chest continued to swell, urging her to take another step.

Hermione forced a foot forward. The next came easier. She began to climb the hill, looking at every stone she passed, until her feet halted at the gravestone she'd came to visit. She hadn't meant to visit, but deep down, she knew that she needed to. Her eyes glanced at the name engraved onto the front, and she felt the tears beginning to gather in her eyes.

"Hi, Dad," she croaked. The word that slipped out of her lips tasted so bitter that it hurt to even think about it. The tears began to fall one at a time, and she sniffed before placing her hands on the stone to trace his name and to grip the sides of it. She kneeled in front of the stone. "I've got to tell you something. Something happened to me." She paused, letting out a sob. "I'm sorry I couldn't tell you when you asked me before because I was afraid... that you'd look at me the way everyone else is looking at me. I was scared that you'd stop loving me because you're the only person who ever loved me. I didn't deserve it, but you did. I'm so sorry." Her shoulders shook involuntarily. Her face became soaked in tears and saliva as she sobbed out all the pain she'd been keeping for years. She lifted her head to stare at his name as though she was looking right at him, and breathed in deeply, before she went on.

She wanted to tell him everything.

And so she did.

.o.O.o.

Hermione slipped in through the front door.

It was a little after half past two in the morning when she arrived home. The lights on the front porch had been left on. Stepping onto the hall, she saw a dim light coming from the living room. She removed her shoes, hooking them on her fingers, and walked quietly toward the light. She found her mother fast asleep on the three-seater couch with a book lying open on her lap. She'd also forgotten to remove her eyeglasses but despite the couch being her most unlikely place to settle on, she looked peaceful.

Hermione wished that she could find peace like that too. But peace was never her friend. Just like time, peace was an evasive force of nature. She tried to find peace in everything and everywhere and everyone, but had failed.

Her mother looked comfortable as she slept soundly on the couch, all traces of her frustration from their argument earlier had faded. She was using the armrest as a pillow and her long, graying hair was dangling off the side of the couch. Perhaps, all their sorrows could be forgotten later. It was unlikely, but maybe for once, time wouldn't be such a bitch.

She took a deep breath before she headed upstairs.

* * *

 _A/N: Hello! Apologies for the late updates. Beta-work is a lot harder than I had expected. But with **haydensister** 's dedication and support, everything is turning well. I owe her so much! Thank you, and my gratitude extends to my awesome readers, who never fails to make me smile! 'Til next time! _

_PS. WHO WANTS ME TO WRITE A CHAPTER IN CHARLIE'S POV? The next few chapters are going to get heavier. Get ready. *evil laugh*_


	19. Chapter Seventeen

**Chapter Seventeen**

 **RIPPLE IN THE WATER**

 _January 5, 2002_

"Something on your mind?"

Looking back, her muggle psychiatrist sat on her usual couch. She laid the same leather-bound journal on her lap while the other hand played with a ballpoint pen. It was that Saturday again; she'd returned to her regular therapy sessions to, in Daphne's words, help her talk. But Hermione preferred to just drink it away until it doesn't exist anymore.

Hermione never openly discussed the events of approximately seven months ago when Daphne had found her at that muggle party. She barely remembered any of that night; only that when she woke up with a throbbing headache that seemed to crack her skull in half, Daphne had been there, concerned and on a mission to help her get better (whatever the hell that was). Daphne told them what happened, but Hermione only shrugged and looked as though she didn't care.

But she did care. Her heart raced in anxiety as Daphne vented, practically on the verge of exploding into splinters, and her mind brought her back to that night—three years ago. Everything can be traced back to that night, she concluded.

Inwardly, Hermione pushed the thoughts away. She sneered and forced herself to mind other things.

She left Hampshire after New Years. Though Helena hadn't brought up their awful conversation again, Hermione couldn't stay a minute longer. She had left on the evening of the 1st, saying a few words of goodbye, and had taken the train back to London. When she arrived at her flat, Luna threw her arms around Hermione and pulled her into a tight embrace that cut off Hermione's breathing for a couple of seconds. Luna asked her where she'd gone and all Hermione could do was shrug.

At dinner, Luna flashed her left hand to show the large diamond ring on her finger. The stone glistened as brightly as the smile on her dainty face. Blaise held Luna's hand, Draco clapped his best friend on the back in congratulations. Daphne giggled excitedly for Luna. But Hermione—all she could offer was a smile. Her words had dried up from her mouth like a desert in a drought. She wished that she had something to say but what was she going to say without sounding like a total hypocrite?

Why did it matter anyways, she thought to herself. Hypocrite was such a mild term to describe what she was; because as compared to her, being hypocrite didn't even come close.

That was a moment of pure happiness. She wouldn't have wished for anything less for Luna; she deserved it more than anyone. She wanted to feel happy for Luna, but for Hermione, bliss and displeasure felt so intimately the same. It was something that had so little distinction; both hanging by the thread of fine line, and she didn't know how to distinguish which was which.

"Hermione?"

Snapping out of her thoughts, Hermione looked at the older woman; tracing the silver lining between her woman's sincerity and her own apathetic tendencies. The sessions always begin as the two women take their seats, minutes passing by slowly, while Hermione sat in the quiet. Sometimes she sat for the entire hour, the intense desire to sit in silence became a regularity; and other times she talked without even having to convince herself that it was what she needed.

It was ironic, she realized, the paradox that she'd trapped herself in: the strong urge to follow her wants or her needs. All her life she thought that she'd been doing what she was necessary; but perhaps, she wanted it more. Maybe she wanted it because it felt good to be in control, to wait and pounce like a predator, and to avoid the inevitability of being a prey. But she was… she has always been a prey.

She'd been playing the wrong character in this entire charade.

Hermione sighed, "Nothing."

Her eyes glanced out the window again, avoiding the older woman's gaze for as long as she could, knowing that by the distant look in her eyes, she'd give away too much. She'd done enough talking, but somewhere deep in her belly, a hollow pit seemed to be still full, carrying a constant need to keep talking until she had no words left to say. Softly, Ms. Moore asked, "Are you sure?"

The witch sighed. Her breath came out heavy, not realizing how long she had been holding it nor that had she been holding it in at all. "Why does it matter?" She asked sharply. Hermione placed her ice-cold hand against her lips, trying to push back the words from falling out.

"I don't know, Hermione," Ms. Moore shrugged, "You tell me. I'm just doing my job."

The atmosphere began to thicken; the terrible feeling settled in her stomach kept growling. Hermione tried to ignore it but between the quiet that filled the space in the spacious room, she failed to do so. Her muscles flexed tighter, pressing herself harder against the couch she'd been sitting for God knows how long, and an unshakable itch to leave kept crawling upon her spine.

Hermione glared, "Why should I? I don't get it. I've been going to these stupid sessions for weeks now, and nothing ever changes. I don't think it helps me at all."

Smiling, the older woman tapped her pen on the journal. Her head crooked to the side, staring at Hermione with a pause before saying, "Well, I think it's part of my job to worry about that, don't you?" Hermione scoffed. But Ms. Moore ignored it, "What about you tell me the changes you want to see?"

"This," Hermione gritted her teeth, "This twisted, fucked-up fairytale that I've been trying to weave properly for the last three years. I can't… I can't live like this for the rest of my life—"

"Then, why don't you? Change, I mean," Ms. Moore said.

"It's easier said than done," Hermione mumbled. She wrung her fingers together, pushing her anxiety to the pressure she'd placed on her hands. "I'm trying, though. But it never works." The words sounded as though they'd slipped narrowly between clarity and doubt.

"You know," the older woman began, "Change doesn't occur overnight. It may take days, weeks, months, or even years to be recognized. Maybe you can't feel it right now, but it doesn't necessarily mean that you never will. Do you notice any _disturbances_ in your life right now? Some things that changes your routine?"

Hermione faced the older woman. She looked calm, waiting for an answer to that question that Hermione hadn't had time to think about. Has she noticed any disturbances? Sure; of course, she did. Over the course of three months, a lot of things had changed. She'd done things she hadn't done in three years, and it only took a few people to rattle her cage. Some intended to help while others intended to break her some more; and three years ago, she wouldn't have allowed them to.

But now, she opened the door to her cage and let them in— _exposure_ , be damned.

Ms. Moore continued, "Do you think it would be possible that these disturbances are the changes that you have been looking for? You may not like it as it is, but maybe you'll have to wait and see if it gets better."

Hermione sat in silence.

Neither did she look up, nor did she look away; instead, she exhaled, digesting all the new information she'd received. When Hermione still didn't say anything, Ms. Moore continued, "Would you like to tell me about these disturbances? Maybe we can identify them together."

Her chest swelled in pain. Her eyes stung as tears gathered around the edge, and as she turned away again, she finally said: "I… I have dreams." She sighed, shaking her head too, "No. I have _nightmares_. Of… of what could've been."

Ms. Moore scribbled a few words on her journal before following up, "Could you please clarify that? The last part?"

In the span of a minute, the image of the little redhead girl flashed again. The nightmare began its replay; the five-minute conversation she'd shared with that girl kept Hermione awake most nights. She couldn't sleep without having to enter the same dream again and again as though she needed to a reminder of the mistakes she'd done to survive.

"Hermione?"

"It's about a little girl," Hermione exhaled, feeling the weight on her shoulders getting heavier.

"And is this little girl a representation of your younger self?"

Quickly, Hermione shook her head. She kept her eyes looking down but she could feel the tension of how Ms. Moore looked right at her. She croaked, "No… It—" she let out a nervous laugh, "—um, _she_ has red hair and… and freckles. I-I know that if I hadn't aborted the baby, she would've been m-my child." By the last word, Hermione found herself looking at the older woman.

Ms. Moore began to shuffle the pages of the journal. She asked, not tearing her gaze from the page, "You mentioned before that the reason you aborted the baby was that you didn't want to see it. Is that right?" Hermione responded with a nod. "May I know why?"

"Because I…" Hermione said, "I never wanted it in the first place."

"Was it an unexpected development?"

Hermione huffed. She forced a bitter laugh down her throat and retorted, " _Unexpected_ would be putting it mildly."

"Would you like to explain why that is?"

"Because it was _unexpected_ ," Hermione snapped, her chest about to explode from the pain she'd bottled for so long. "But it was more than that. It was violating, destructive, and uninviting. _He_ … was uninvited. I trusted him, and I knew his family so well that I treated them as my own too, but he… he just broke me; and knowing that that little girl will look exactly like him, I didn't want it. I didn't want her. I didn't want to be reminded of my own weakness, my failure…"

Ms. Moore stopped writing from her journal. She looked up, her eyes clouded with a wave of confusion—before she said, "Hermione. This might be a strong assumption but I'd like to clarify something here." She paused, taking a deep breath. "Were you, in any way, sexually assaulted?"

How did it come to this? She'd tried so damn hard to convince herself that no one had to know. She'd told herself many times that she could keep it a secret. The stakes were high; but she gambled, anyway. Hermione jumped to the other side of the cliff without so much of a guarantee that she'd make it because she needed to believe that she _could_ make it.

Even if it was a lie. She'd rather be the fool than allow herself to be burned at the stake. But fate had obliterated any chances of that happening. It twisted the story, flipping the coin downwards, and Hermione knew that she'd lost.

Many had discovered, and soon, everyone would. It was only a matter of time, and she dreaded it. Hermione hitched a breath. Shutting her eyes, she gave a nod.

"By the father of the little girl?"

"Yes."

"Okay," Ms. Moore said. She leaned back on the couch with a sigh. The tension on Hermione's shoulders hadn't been lifted; in fact, it kept sinking her down to the ground. "Though I understand that it must be difficult to admit that; but is there a particular reason why you never talked about it before?"

Tears fell, sliding down her flushed cheeks. Her chest throbbed in whatever emotion she'd been hiding for a long time. The memories she'd suppressed began to unravel one at a time by this secret that she'd carried by herself. She let out a choking sob, "Because I'm scared."

Long silence.

"Do you still see him?"

"Sometimes," Hermione stifled a cry, "I see him around…" Even if she tried, it would've been impossible to not run into him. They were part of the same small magical community, his family consisted a large number of members, and they had been, at one point, closely related. It would've been pointless to avoid him. She would've been an idiot for trying.

"How does he act toward you?"

"Like I'm not there." She remembered again. Him. Her. Everyone. That day in Diagon Alley—when he'd just arrived with Katie Bell from Spain; when they announced their upcoming nuptials; when she looked at his face and saw _nothing_ ; when she left Luna and ran; when she came over to Draco's… Fuck, she needed to stop.

Ms. Moore asked, still writing, "How do you feel whenever he's around?"

Sighing, Hermione looked out. She searched for something else to look at except this room. The air they breathed had gotten too thick and too heavy for her tiny, burned-out lungs. She realized, then, that coming here had been the worst idea ever. She bit her tongue hard, begging herself to stop talking; but failed when the words felt as fluid as water, "Like it's all happening again. Like I never left that floor, and I could feel his hands all over me again, and I couldn't move." She sniffed. "So I run. I run as far as I can until he can never catch up again. But he always does. He's always right behind me as if I've wasted all of my time running to nowhere." The words tasted awful like blood on her mouth, spreading across the field of her tongue.

Ms. Moore said, "Why do you run?"

"Because it's easier to hide than face it," Hermione hissed. Rage filled her up like a tankful of gasoline, and she felt the words burning at the tip of her throat. Her fists clenched just as hard as her heart hammered inside her chest.

"But running will only set aside your problems. It might give you temporary relief, but never long lasting. And as you said, it always catches up," Ms. Moore pressed. Her wisdom dug deeper into the massive hole in the middle of Hermione's chest.

"I know! God, I _know_ that!" Hermione could hear her own voice crack at the words she'd slipped in anger. Or whatever this burning feeling inside her was. It tasted like rotten meat and sour milk. She paused. She took in a deep breath before she continued, "Everything I did, I only did to survive. I tried to be alive even for a second longer. But was it wrong? Was _I_ wrong?"

Hermione caught the older woman's gaze. Her own eyes bore a spark ignited by these doubts she'd been asking herself for the last few weeks—or perhaps even longer. It hurt to think that all these decisions she made to provide herself with a little comfort and strength to hold onto her fragile sanity were misjudged by people because they failed to understand how it felt and how it made her feel.

No. Even if she explained, no one would understand anyway.

Slowly, Ms. Moore shut the journal. She placed it on the lamp desk next to her. She leaned forward; both her elbows propped on her knees and her hands clasped together in front. She flashed a tight smile before she explained, "There is no universal structure in coping. Sometimes, the means doesn't matter at all. But we have to see if we have better options." She paused, allowing Hermione to digest what she had said. "Hermione, there is at some point in our lives when we need to face our greatest weaknesses for us to fully be strong. That is the true test of strength. One must overcome their own failures and fears to succeed. Because these are the only things that prevent us from achieving our goals. What is your goal, Hermione?"

For that, Hermione didn't have an answer. She searched for whatever goal she aimed to pursue in this hopeless case of finding peace. Or closure. Or whatever the fuck her mind needed. She couldn't picture how this story would end. All she wanted was to survive, and be alive, even for a little longer.

She'd been running for three years. Hiding in plain sight. She isolated herself from people until all she had was herself along with that glimmer of hope that she'd be okay. But of course, it was false hope. She wasn't okay; not then, not now. She'd been falling into a spiral of endless repeating scenarios, hoping that something along will change.

But it didn't. How does one change when one doesn't disturb the waters?

"I just want this to be over," Hermione whispered.

"Well then, in order for this to be over, you first have to begin," Ms. Moore replied. Her voice sounded so soft in Hermione's ears.

"It's not easy."

"It never is," Ms. Moore chuckled, "Things that are worth fighting for never is."

Silence engulfed them again. Hermione felt as though a surge of water flooded her lungs while her mind followed that tangled string of thoughts. She'd changed three years ago. She dyed her hair into a darker shade, put on too much make-up that made her unrecognizable enough to keep herself hidden, and filled herself with anything—anyone—to keep her head above water and breathe. She did everything to convince herself that she'd be okay.

Ms. Moore broke the quiet, "Do you hate him?"

"I…" Hermione paused. Does she still hate him now? She saw his face again. She could still hear his hysterical sobs that night when he came to her flat. She hated him for years because he had hurt her but all that hatred and anger had been washed away when she saw him. The shame, the pain, the guilt—circling in the color of his eyes just like how hers swam on her own. Finally, she said, "I did."

"What changed?" Ms. Moore asked. Hermione shrugged. She still looked out of the window, waiting for the hour to be over. "Well, what do you feel about him now?"

Hermione swallowed. The lump her throat remained; and she said, "Pity—to which I think is the lowest I can ever give him. I pity him. I pity his fiancée. I pity his family."

"Is there anything else you feel?"

"All my anger," Hermione muttered, the words unconsciously weaving into sentences, "was gone. I wanted to still be angry at him. To hate him. To hurt him like how he hurt me." She paused, looked up at the older woman, eyes burning with determination, before she continued, "But I can't anymore."

.o.O.o.

Eight hundred and twenty.

That was the number of days since Draco Malfoy last saw his father. He could still remember when everyone in the Wizengamot courtroom applauded at the proclamation of a lifetime imprisonment to no other than Lucius Malfoy, and Draco had felt his ribcage shatter into fragments like a bomb inside him had exploded.

The memory remained as vivid in his recollection. His father stood in the middle; hands were bound in shackles that marred his wrists, his straight hair tangled, and those steel grey eyes that Draco had always feared looked at him with such disappointment. Draco tried his best not to stare but there was something lodged in the pit of his stomach that made him want to one last time.

He wasn't sure what he longed to see in his father's cold eyes, but he had hoped that Lucius would somehow show any shred of his humanity, the one that Draco had only seen once or twice in his entire life, but his father showed nothing but strength and pride as though being convicted as a Death Eater meant honor and greatness—but of course, Draco knew better.

No, being a Death Eater wasn't an honor. It wasn't something he had been proud of. In his arm was tattooed the mark of a deranged lunatic, one who believed that the world would be a better and brighter without _mudbloods_. Draco started hating that name after he'd seen Granger's tactic and combat skills during the war, and right there he learned how wrong the Dark Lord was. How wrong he was.

He wished he'd acknowledged it sooner before everything that his family name meant had fallen into rubble. After the war, Draco did his best to carry their name back to its former glory. He scrubbed clean the stain off his name with his bare hands, erased the dogmatic traditions he'd been taught since infancy, and dragged it back to the top because this name— _his name_ —was the only thing good that he could be proud of.

Draco saw his father stand there with such conviction of his beliefs as though the war hadn't shaken them at all. He waited and waited for his father to break like glass; instead, his father remained unmoved and reserved as the Aurors escorted him away from the angry crowd. Beside Draco was Narcissa Malfoy who evaded the looks of everyone else in the room.

The woman he'd once looked upon to be incredibly strong and confident looked so… _broken_. If there was anyone else that seemed more broken than Draco ever was, it was his mother. She had always been the middle of their family, and the bridge between Draco and his father. But as Draco looked at his mother, the bridge was almost falling apart, and she seemed to be drowning.

It had taken a long time for Draco to pull the pieces back together. He watched his mother break down the entire Malfoy Manor to remove all dirt and scum and bad memories the Dark Lord had left in their home. Together, Draco and Narcissa struggled—but they survived.

After Draco saw his father escorted out of the courtroom, he hadn't seen Lucius since. He hadn't talked to him since. No, he hadn't heard _anything_ from him since that day.

Until now.

The letter remained folded in one of the inside pockets of his robes. It was a short handwritten letter from his father, delivered by an owl from Azkaban directly to his bedroom window. Draco was awake when the owl's beak tapped on the window glass with an envelope clipped in its mouth, and as he reached closer to take it, he realized where it came from. The seal of the envelope answered the first question he would have asked and he didn't know what to expect.

He didn't know if he wanted to open it or not. Was he ready to read whatever his father wanted to tell him after two years? Was he prepared to accept whatever consequences may come after? He didn't know, and he wanted to know what to do. But as he searched his mind for some logic and reason for this occurrence, he realized that he couldn't find any. It didn't make any sense at all. But he also knew that there must be a reason why the owl sent it directly to him.

He'd expected the opening the letter would be hard but he found that reading it was much harder than the former. He breathed deeply as he devoured the words of the first paragraph, and by the last word, he hadn't noticed that he'd been holding his breath. He released it and refolded the paper before tucking it inside his robes.

Of course, Draco hadn't mentioned any of this to his mother. His father had caused enough trouble and pain for his mother, and Draco decided that it was best to keep her out of it. If it was possible, he'd keep the truth away from her for as long as necessary. Perhaps this was what Granger meant by hiding away for so long with a secret that could ruin not just one man, but perhaps the whole Wizarding community, and he wondered if he was doing the right thing.

He shook the thought out of his head.

At this moment, Draco sat back on the plush purple couch he'd found solace in after his mother dragged him to shop. Narcissa, dressed a bright green robe, spun in front of a full-length mirror before breaking the quiet that surrounded them both, "Draco, dear. What do you think of this color?"

Draco quirked an eyebrow. He noticed as his mother looked to the far side of the mirror that reflected his face and sighed, "Right. This looks rather tedious. I'm afraid it makes me look a bit sick, yes?" She didn't wait for a response; instead, she stepped down from the podium and took another dress robe from collection and went to the fitting room.

He suppressed a yawn—his rough palms rubbed against the whole of his face to keep himself awake for a few more minutes. He hadn't been sleeping well. On some hours, he'd lie straight and still on the bed with his eyes looking distantly at the ceiling; and when he'd exhausted himself thinking, he would pour himself a drink and watch the first light beam through his tall glass windows.

His days eventually deteriorated unproductively; and whenever he attended a meeting, his train of thought always loses its way somewhere deep in his subconscious. He ate less and drunk more. He would sit at his desk, pretend to do work, and hope to Merlin's soul that his mind would give him a minute of silence.

His mother had noticed it, of course. If he knew better, and he did, he could never lie or keep his feelings from her. He suspected that it was the reason Narcissa had decided to drag him along in her shopping errands. He was capable of refusing, but his mother—cunning and sly altogether—feigned how lonely she felt and wanted to be accompanied by her dearest son; and despite Draco's better judgment, he was still his mother's son.

So he agreed, and here he was.

Closing his eyes, his senses faded again, that slight tingle at the end of his long fingers spreading, clouding his mind with nothing but the sound of incessant buzzing, and the feeling of restlessness fading. He let his mind float across the ocean of his consciousness, savoring a few short minutes of peace—

"How about this, dear?"

Without cracking an eye open, he sighed, "I'm certain it looks fabulous on your complexion, Mother." He heard as Narcissa huffed in response to his mockery. In his mind, Draco pictured his mother to be standing right in front of him, hands on her hips, and a disapproving look painted across her face. But as he opened one eye, he saw that she'd gone back to check more dress robes.

He frowned but decided to ignore this unexpected reaction.

Narcissa went back into the fitting room with more colors. The curtains were shut, and all Draco saw was her feet moving inside the cubicle. He looked around. Then his mother said, still hiding behind the drapes, "You're so quiet, Draco. Can't you at least pretend to be having fun?"

Draco snickered at that. He rose from the couch and stopped at the window that faced the crowded streets of Diagon Alley. "Please, Mother. You know that I am an unpleasant company. If you want to talk about clothes, I suggest you look for someone else or take Pansy instead. I'm sure she'd absolutely appreciate the offer. You two are alike after all—"

The sound of the curtains pushed aside interrupted Draco's ramble. His mother stood in her own indigo-colored dress robes with a stern expression on her face. Draco smirked. "You know well that the Parkinson women are so eager to touch the Malfoy fortune. I don't think inviting either of them to shop would be a wise idea. Now," Narcissa threw the discarded dress robes back to the side and sighed, "where would you like to go for lunch?"

Draco asked, eyeing the pile of dress robes she'd tried on and threw away like dirty laundry, "Didn't see anything you like?"

"No," Narcissa scrunched her nose, "Nothing fits well for my figure. Perhaps when I go to Paris, I'd find something better. It's always better in Paris, don't you think?" She reached for Draco's arm, and together, they walked out of the dress shop.

It was early January, and most wizards and witches were doing their last minute post-Christmas shopping. His mother mentioned that there was a huge end-of-the-season sale; but of course, they never care about discounts because the Malfoys could afford _anything_. Draco had been taught that being a Malfoy was everything a wizard could ever want to be; but after the war, he wondered if that still held true.

Before he could think further, he pushed it off. He shook his head to remind him that he didn't care about any of that anymore. More than half of his life, he'd believed all the good things a Malfoy name could get, but he'd forgotten that the good always came with the bad.

Once they arrived and seated at the restaurant, Draco looked around the crowded place. The noise of loud clinking glass, forks, knives, and spoons filled his senses that he hadn't realized the waiter standing beside their table. Narcissa took the liberty of ordering for them, much to Draco's dismay; but when he saw her standing in the front lobby, talking to one of the receptionists, he couldn't look away—

Granger. What was she doing here? He reminded himself that she could go anywhere she liked. But Draco couldn't shake the bothersome he felt in his bones when he saw her. Of all days, why now? He had meant to owl her but he couldn't bring himself to write the right words. He wondered how she'd been these past few weeks; but through and through, Draco was a coward.

"Draco?" His mother's voice called to him, "What's wrong?"

He wanted to face his mother. But he wasn't able to turn his head toward her as his grey eyes were fixated on Hermione Granger standing in the lobby. A familiar swelling began growing in his chest as he looked at her. He couldn't stop himself from watching. She nodded, smiled, and looked around. And after a while, their eyes locked on each other.

The screeching of chair urged Draco to turn back. He looked up to see his mother rise from her seat, give him a knowing smile, before walking ahead. He opened his mouth to ask where she was going, but as his eyes followed her, he soon realized where she'd gone off to. Narcissa walked towards Granger, and from a distance, all Draco could do was watch.

Fuck. He wanted to sink lower in his seat. But instead, he only had nothing but a glass of Scotch; so Draco picked it up and poured the rest into his mouth.

"Draco," he turned at his mother's call and saw the two women standing behind him. "Is it alright if Miss Granger joins us for lunch?" He switched his look from his mother to the young witch, cleared his throat, and nodded. He wanted to say something but his voice seemed so untrustworthy right now.

"Wonderful," Narcissa beamed as she sat back down.

Draco caught a glimpse of his mother's gaze that asked him a thousand questions. He stood and assisted Granger into her own chair before he returned to his. He immediately gestured for a waiter, asking another set of plate for their new company, and quietly ordered for another glass of Scotch. But Narcissa only rolled her eyes and turned to Granger.

Narcissa sat elegantly and said, "Oh, I'm so pleased that you've accepted our offer. I've been hoping to talk to you since the Christmas Ball—"

His drink arrived, and he sipped a mouthful. Draco dreaded what his mother wanted to talk about. Their previous conversation hadn't been pleasing at all after he nearly spilled the secrets he'd been trusted to keep. He thought that he could control his mother's meddling but he realized that perhaps he wasn't as strong as he thought he was.

From the corner of his eyes, Draco saw Granger smile; though he noticed the quivering of her cheeks as they rose. His mother kept talking, the rest of the crowded place moving, but Draco could only focus on his elevated pulse. As Granger glanced at him, Draco turned back to his glass, drank, and he pretended to look elsewhere.

"—like the gift that I gave you for Christmas?" Narcissa said, causing Granger to look back at her. Draco returned to watching the two women again.

"Yes, I did," Granger replied. Her voice sounded so soft in his ears. "Though I admit it was a bit too much. I appreciate the gift—"

Narcissa gasped, "Don't even think about returning me that gift. I gave it to you because you are a beautiful witch, and we—beautiful witches—deserve to wear elegant jewelry. Show your appreciation by wearing it—"

"That's what I told her," Draco interrupted, taking another sip from his drink.

He glanced at Granger again. This time, he accompanied his gaze with a playful smirk and saw the color of her cheeks turning a shade redder. She looked back to Narcissa with a wider smile, nodding, "Of course. Thank you."

Silence brewed between the three of them. Narcissa lifted her glass and drank from her wine; Granger sat quietly, fiddling with her hands under the table; Draco eyed her closely; and after a long moment of quiet, he finally said, "What are you doing in Diagon Alley?"

Granger looked up in surprise and answered, "Well, I just came from the hospital and decided to have lunch somewhere—"

"Hospital?" Narcissa inquired, a hint of concern could be distinguished from her voice. She shifted her look between her son and the dark-haired witch. "St. Mungo's? You aren't sick, are you?"

Draco glared at his mother. He opened his mouth to interrupt this ambush but Granger spoke in a softer tone, chuckling nervously, "No. It was a muggle hospital. And I, um, just went for a check-up." She looked at Draco at that last word, and he remembered that Saturdays were the days for her regular therapy sessions with that Muggle psychiatrist Daphne had set her up with.

He asked, "You didn't come with Luna?"

"No," Granger said, forcing a smile. "She's at work. I'll see her tonight, though. Blaise mentioned he'd be coming over." She paused for a split second. "Aren't you?"

He thought if that was an invitation. Then he said, "Maybe."

Time seemed to stretch into hours as Draco held Granger's gaze. Her stare felt as if it could drill a hole through his head. So he looked around. He grumbled how slow the restaurant's service was, pretending to care, but in truth, he only needed a distraction. When he saw Granger again, she returned him a tiny smile that bent the ends of her lips, enough to crease her cheeks, and went on to talk again to Narcissa.

Draco drank while his mother said, "Oh, Merlin! Before I forget, Draco told me before that you have an exceptional talent for painting, is that right?" Granger tucked an invisible strand of hair behind her ear, her head lowered, and hiding a smile she failed to suppress. He found out that looking at her was such an amusing habit.

"Well, I'm not sure about exceptional. But I do have skill, I think," Granger mumbled. Her cheeks reddened at the compliment she received from Draco's mother.

"Oh, that is marvelous! Do you do portraits?" Narcissa rambled. She clapped her hands in excitement as she turned her head back and forth between her son and his friend. "I have been thinking about having a new self-portrait hanged on the second-floor hall, and perhaps another of Draco and I to be placed in the front hall. It would be an honor to be painted by you, Miss Granger…"

Granger widened her smile. Draco noticed by the look on her face that even she hadn't noticed it. So he kept staring, savoring the minutes until she realized the grin plastered across her face, knowing that she'd immediately hide it away at once.

"Oh, I… I'm certain that there are more skilled artists in London that could do your paintings. Artists that I assure wouldn't disappoint," Granger shook her head. She stifled a nervous laugh that tripped out of her mouth like some klutz in high heels. Reaching for her glass, she drank a mouthful of water to soak the dried throat she had.

"Nonsense!" Narcissa gasped, shaking her head too. If Draco knew his mother well, she wasn't someone who could be dissuaded at all. Once she has set herself onto something, she would get it regardless of the means. "I wouldn't have anybody else do our portraits other than you, of course. Besides, I'm certain Draco would pay a handsome fine for such a magnificent piece of art, wouldn't you, darling?" Narcissa placed a hand over her son's knee, asking for assurance.

Draco cleared his throat with a soft nod, saying, "Of course. We wouldn't want to disappoint the artist. I'm confident that it would be worth every Galleon." He looked at Granger's eyes again with pride before flashing another playful smirk. His mother, he'd decided, was a trickster. She was an excellent woman who could manipulate people with something as simple as the wave of her hand, and he convinced himself that this was a harmless transaction.

Granger let out a sigh. She looked down to the table, tracing the tablecloth underneath her slender hands, and nodded toward Narcissa. Narcissa squealed in elegant delight before beaming to Draco, "My dear! I really believe that this will be wonderful—"

The euphoria that surrounded them disappeared at the entrance of another group at the restaurant. The presence of their arrival was strong enough to catch Draco's attention. He glanced at the entrance again, the same way as he looked over earlier when he saw Granger, and found four familiar people gathered in such an awkward scenario. His hand balled into a tight fist under the table, watching as Harry and Ginny Potter, Katie Bell, and Charlie _fucking_ Weasley enter.

Ginny spotted their table. Turning his face to Granger's, he found that the two old friends were staring at each other. The brunette held a strong gaze; though to someone who knew her enough, they'd notice the agitated look on her face that she attempted to conceal through clenched teeth and steady breathing. He noticed what others couldn't.

He saw how the muscles on her arm tightened, her shoulders stiffening at the tension spreading across her back, and her cheeks flinching. He watched her breathe through her nose, slow and heavy with every second passing. An urge to reach out and hold her shaking hand with his own crawled upon Draco's skin, but he couldn't make himself move. He reached out once he had enough courage to do so, but he'd been too late as she stood without a word.

Narcissa looked startled at Granger's movements. She began to ask questions, only to be ignored, and her eyes watching the image in front of her. Draco called, his voice cutting through like a blade, "Hermione, wait—"

Time began to tick in sync with his own heartbeat. Draco gripped onto Granger's wrist, holding onto her for dear life like she'd leaped off a cliff and he couldn't let her go, but he felt his hand loosening as Granger stumbled out in a rush. He exhaled, feeling a gut-wrenching pain in his stomach, and realized how powerless he was while watching her leave.

He hitched a deep breath. _Merlin's fuck_ , the unusual feeling in his stomach remained. Minutes went by so slowly. He'd lost track of how long he sat there, thinking. His head began to ache terribly, and as he looked back, Draco caught an unexpected sight as Ginny rushed out of the restaurant too; and soon, a haze of realization hit him square on the face, draining all the remaining blood from his cheeks as fear and panic filled him.

Narcissa screeched in surprise, "Draco, what are you—"

He stood, clearly out of his wits. This might be the worst idea he'd thought of; but sitting here and waiting, he couldn't do it. He couldn't let Granger face this—them—by herself, no. Not this time.

* * *

 _A/N: Hello, lovelies. This piece is not completely edited since my beta is currently on vacation. However, I am still thankful for her insights. Thank you, Alex. You are an angel. Anyway, sorry for the delay. It's finally getting heavier! Reviews? I totally appreciate it. Thanks! 'Til next time._


	20. Chapter Eighteen

**Chapter Eighteen**

 **LANDING**

 _January 5, 2002_

One look.

It was all it took. To feel the fall, to crash like a plane with a broken engine, to break. She'd forgotten how long she'd been waiting for this exact moment to happen. Now, it was here. It was happening. She finally lost all control, and her hands grasped for anything she could hold onto and found nothing.

But this wasn't what she expected. Her mind formulated a different image, no; she'd imagined herself to have gotten used to the pain after years recurring emotions. She saw herself breathing slow, eyelids dropping, and the wind whistling in her ears like a background music in a film. But what was happening right then felt entirely wrong.

Hermione stood at the cliff side. The wind blew harshly, pushing her to take the last step and fall. Because it was never about the fall. No, she didn't fear the fall. She feared the impact; the crash; the landing; how it felt as her bones snapped like twigs and branches; the blood splattering on a plain white cloth. She thought she wasn't afraid of death. In fact, she was welcoming it. She was inviting it to take her. But what was this she felt? Blood pumping loud and fast through her veins while the rest of the world stopped turning.

She convinced herself long ago that she was ready to die. But as Death looked right at her, disguised as a red-haired woman, she realized how wrong she was. She could feel her heart shattering into smaller pieces. The cracks she had glued together started to crumble again, clattering onto the floor, and Hermione could do nothing but breathe.

Why would she have tried so hard to survive if she wanted to die? No, she wasn't ready yet. She needed more time. But time was never on her side.

Hermione stumbled. She couldn't remember standing, or walking, or looking. But somehow she'd made it past the crowd and out of the restaurant. She nearly fell, pushing herself through anything that stood in her way. Her heels clacked as they hit the sidewalk. Her arms swung on both sides as she moved, not sure of where she needed to go. Her eyes blurred in a haze of confusion, mist, and layered images. She tried to blink but heard a sudden ringing in her head.

Her shoulder hit something hard; then an angry voice shouted, "Oi! Watch it, lady!" She didn't have half the mind to think about it. Fuck—this felt like one of her drunken mornings. The only difference was she haven't had a drop of liquor yet. The throbbing at her temple tripling as soon as she made it far across the alley. She needed a drink. But every liquor store in London wouldn't be enough to drown whatever this feeling was lodged in her chest.

"HERMIONE…!"

No. No, this cannot be happening. Hermione inhaled, trying to regulate her breathing. Her heels dragged across the rough ground, scraping like sandpaper, and she forced herself to keep moving. Neither did she have the time for this, nor the energy to face her, or worse, them. She felt lost and vulnerable, a face she'd rarely shown to anyone because Hermione Granger was never weak.

Everyone believed that she was strong. She fought in the war and held her head high after a psychotic witch tried to torture answers out of her. But no, everyone had their breaking point; and this—this was hers. She built a façade to hide the scared little girl that she was. She wasn't always as headstrong or brilliant or brave because if she was anything, she was more cowardly than anyone.

She hid behind a strong wall. And the wall had begun crumbling into bricks.

Hermione pushed through more people. Shivers ran up her spine faster than she could run. She picked up her feet but she seemed to be walking against the currents of a flowing river. The force held her back, and the redhead was getting closer. Her voice echoing in slow and deep tone—

"—HERMIONE… WAIT…"

Her feet were sinking onto the soft riverbed, the water reaching her chest, and without realizing, she began drowning in her own consciousness. The cool sensation of the water touched her skin. Her dress clung to her figure for dear life, shaping her skinny body, and her hair plastered all over the place. God, she needed to get out. A hand touched her arm, pulled her back, and suddenly, the river disappeared, and she realized that she was still trapped in that marketplace.

The owner of the hand happened to be Ginny Potter who has finally caught up with her. Hermione widened her eyes in terror while Ginny looked at her with a heavy sigh. The acceleration of her pulse multiplied as Ginny's hand still held onto her. She jerked back immediately and nearly fell as she stepped on an uneven ground.

"No… Just leave me alone, Ginny," Hermione choked, as she tried to swallow back a sob she'd been holding since she left the restaurant. Her chest locked in. There was no air coming in inside her lungs, and the surrounding continued to spin.

Ginny looked at her with sad eyes, shaking her head, "No. I'm not going to leave you like this. You're not alright. What's wrong, Hermione? Why did you leave? Tell me, please—"

"—no, please—"

"—I want to help—"

Hermione couldn't stop herself from snorting. Everybody wanted to help, but Hermione knew better than to accept anything from them. "You can't help me. No one can," Hermione whispered. She took another step back and tried to walk away.

"But why, Hermione? We used to be friends," Ginny said softly, her voice echoing her regrets. "I want to know what happened. Why you left."

Inwardly, she cursed. Her eyes sewn shut, attempting to block her thoughts from overcoming her body. A wave of old memories began flashing. How could she tell Ginny? No one would believe her. No one would understand. "Because I want nothing to do with you. Or your family. So please, I just want to be left alone! Can't you at least give me that?!" Hermione's nails dug into her palms so hard it began to bleed, gritting every single word out of her mouth.

Ginny cried, "We're all worried. I'm worried—"

The dark-haired witch laughed bitterly. Her chest shuddered in anguish and frustration, masking her pain with sarcasm because she didn't have anything else to say. Her eyes stung, her tears almost falling, so she said: "Fuck your concerns! Fuck your pity! I don't want it! I don't want anything to do with any of you!"

Some people in the crowd began to watch as the two witches continued their argument. The surroundings kept on spinning in Hermione's eyes. Her head felt light and heavy at the same time. Her body seemed to be failing as she stood there.

"What did I do, Hermione? Tell me—"

"For Merlin's sake! That's the thing! You didn't do anything! Not everything is about you, Ginny," Hermione snapped. She could finally feel her cheeks burning. The blood boiled and rushed to the top of her head, and she feared that at any moment, she'd explode.

"Then, I don't understand why you're pushing me away."

"BECAUSE I CAN'T LOOK AT _HIM!"_ The last word slipped right off her tongue unexpectedly. Her eyes widened upon realizing what she meant. But it felt good. It tasted like water touching a dried mouth. She breathed slowly, stuttering, "You… I meant, you—"

"Him?" Ginny echoed. Hermione knew that it was too late. She'd slipped again. She'd made another mistake, piling up on top of all the failures she'd collected in the last three years. "Who was it? Was it Harry? Ron? I thought you loved Ron—"

"No, they…" She trailed off. She looked away, inhaled a shaky breath, and turned back to Ginny. "No, just leave me alone. I can't do this. Please don't make me do this…" Hermione stepped back, a tear sliding her cheek. She had barely left when Ginny's next words rang in Hermione's ears, causing a strong haze of her past crashing onto her like an ice-cold bucket of water.

"Was it Charlie?"

Hermione stopped—followed by a long string of memories flashing before her eyes. Each memory, each image, vivid in bright colors, dragging her back into those worst ten minutes of her life. Ten minutes spent wriggling helplessly. Ten minutes of muffled screams. Ten minutes… only ten minutes, and it affected her for three years.

Her knees weakened at the sound of his name. She had stopped calling him by that name, hoping to burn away his face, his ugly cock, his everything; and maybe—just maybe—those ten minutes would burn away too. She exhaled, coming out as a sob. Her chest felt heavy, her heart shattered, but she could still feel it breaking.

How far was she going to endure this pain? She couldn't take anymore. Her legs wobbled, resulting her to fall, but a pair of strong arms held her in place. Looking up, Hermione saw a pair of steel grey eyes directed to hers with deep concern. Her body shook violently. His touch felt warm against her exposed skin, clearly not ready to let go, and she didn't want him to.

She'd forgotten what was happening. Why she was there. Why Malfoy was holding her as though he never wanted to release her. Why Ginny stood there. And for a moment, everything felt okay.

Malfoy growled, "What did you say?" She could feel his chest against her back heaving and his hold against her tightening. She looked at him again, searching for his eyes, and saw him looking back to the red-haired woman with a twisted look on his face. "This is the last time I'm going to ask, and I suggest you give me a very honest reply, or so help me Merlin, I will _shake_ you senseless. WHAT DID YOU SAY?" Silence. The noise at the marketplace dissolving. His face contorted in frustration, his cheek-side flinching, and his jaws clenching, and his grip on Hermione's arms tightened.

"I…" Ginny croaked, "I asked if it was Charlie."

Then, Hermione was pulled back into reality. She remembered, and all she wanted to do was forget again. Oh Merlin, please let her forget again.

Malfoy cursed softly. He leaned toward Hermione's ear, his hands rubbing gently on her shoulders, before he whispered, "Granger. You have to stand, okay? Please, Hermione, I'll help you." His scent filled the air that she breathed. However, the heavy atmosphere lingered a little longer.

"I can't—"

"Yes, you can. Come on," Malfoy said. His hands moved down to her elbows. He gave her a careful push upward to help her stand back on her own feet. Her dark frizzy hair brushed on the fabric of his robes. As she finally did, Hermione looked up at him with bloodshot eyes.

Behind him, Hermione caught a glimpse of her old friend. Ginny remained frozen in place. Her eyes watered, her mouth slightly gaped, her face red as her hair, and her swollen belly shaped the skirt of her dress. This used to be one of Hermione's best friends. She spent nights talking about boys with her. She fought the war with her. She had loved this woman. But now, she couldn't even look at her without breaking. She thought that she stopped caring, but why did still hurt so much?

"What did he do?" Ginny asked once she'd snapped out of her shock. "What did my brother do, Hermione? Are you the reason why he cancelled the wedding? Are you seeing him? Hermione, please—"

"Okay, Weasley, shut up," Malfoy said, drawing a hand to stop her from talking. "You clearly don't know anything. Are you blind or incredibly stupid to not notice that she can't even say a word without breaking into tears—"

"Malfoy, stop—"

Ginny glared at Malfoy and hissed, "Well, you clearly know what's going on. Why don't you tell me what happened to her? What did my brother do? Are they having an affair? Are they planning to run away and spend their happily ever after together? Are you helping them leave?"

Hermione felt his fingers curling tighter around her arm. But she didn't say anything. She had no energy left to object. All she wanted right then was to leave.

"Did someone tell you that? Or you simply concocted your own conclusions out of some speculation that she reacted badly to his name?" Malfoy leaned forward toward Ginny. "Get your facts straight, Weasley. Better yet, keep your nose out of someone else's business—"

"OI, MALFOY! GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM MY WIFE!"

Harry Potter came into view, pushing his way through the thickening crowd, and pointed his wand toward the blond wizard. He stopped right in front of his pregnant wife and blocked himself between Ginny and Malfoy.

Malfoy retreated. The hand that he held onto Hermione's arm slid away but her hand caught his forearm in a split second to keep him right where he stood. But Malfoy looked at her, eyes telling her that he wasn't going anywhere. Hermione looked down again to avoid their gazes. Then Malfoy scowled, "This is none of your business, Potter."

"This is my wife's business. Therefore, it is also my business," Harry retorted. He placed an arm in front of Ginny protectively.

"Hermione," Ginny called. She stepped out of Harry's protective boundary and reached out. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean all that. Just tell me, please. You can trust me—"

No, this has gone too far. She'd already said too much. She had to go—now. She looked up to Malfoy and sighed. She quickly removed her hand from his wrist and backed away from him, from them, from everything.

Ginny screeched and grasped tight onto Hermione's wrist, "Hermione, don't—"

It happened so slow, and yet, so fast. Hermione hadn't realized what happened next until she saw Ginny sitting on the ground with a hand holding her rounded belly. Harry crouched down to help his wife get up from where she'd fallen. Malfoy looked mortified at the sight. Hermione stared at her hands as though she had stained them with blood.

Hermione looked around—people were staring and whispering in their hushed voices. She noticed that a crowd had finally gathered around them, watching as she showed her ugliness to the rest of the world, for their entertainment. She tried to listen to the noise but nothing could penetrate through her frigid senses. She could hear nothing, she could feel nothing, only the heavy drumming inside her chest—

Harry shouted, "WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU, HERMIONE?!"

"No, Harry, I'm alright. She didn't—"

"She still shouldn't have pushed you off!" Harry bellowed. "You're pregnant, for Godric's sake! She could do some damage!" He glared at Hermione. His nostrils flaring in anger. "Who are you? I don't even know you anymore, Hermione! If you ever touch my wife again, God help me because I will hurt you." He took a step closer to Hermione, jabbing his finger, but Malfoy put himself between the two.

Malfoy sneered, "You've made your point, Potter. Why are you still here?"

Her head began to spin again. She looked around—the faces in the crowd filled with disdain and disgust as though she'd committed the greatest sin of all. Tears gathered in her eyes once more. She wasn't certain what she was looking for but her eyes fixed on someone she wished she hadn't seen at all. He stood there, his blue eyes staring back, and everything else seemed to fade.

"No," Hermione gasped. She took a step back, stumbling to keep her balance steady, and nearly fell again. Malfoy turned to look at her. His eyes were wide. She tore her gaze from Charlie and met Malfoy's. "Please, no. I—I have to go…" Malfoy slowly looked back to the crowd. Hermione knew that he saw what she saw, but she was already breaking through the crowd when she heard him call for her. She drew her wand out and disapparated right on the spot.

.o.O.o.

Merlin, and by all the gods, knew how much Draco had wanted to follow her. His eyes looked back at her, his mouth opened to call her back, but it had been too late. The distant pop echoed from her direction, and he drew a frustrated hiss. He knew that he should've followed her; however, it didn't feel entirely right. He thought of it, but thinking about it seemed easier than doing it.

His feet lost its capability to move. His body frigid, tension rising to his shoulders that he feared he might vomit. He had also seen what she saw; in the large crowd, Charlie Weasley arrived at the scene for whatever reason that Draco cared less about. His scruffy-looking face blank, his eyes distantly watching them like a scene from a play, but to someone who knew what to look for, Draco noticed the man's tightly locked jaws and irregular breathing.

What could that mean, he didn't know. Blaise had asked him before if Draco believed the man, answering with blank, conflicted looks, and even now, he didn't know any better. In all honestly, he looked confused as everybody else. Was the man sincere in his apologies? Did he feel troubled as much as Granger did? _Oh fuck_ , he cursed. It didn't matter if he was sincere or bothered by his mistake; what matters is that Granger ended up hurt and strained, reliving horrifying memories for three years, doing it all alone. And, Draco didn't know how to help her.

 _We've all made mistakes_ , Draco concluded. He, himself, have had made his fair share of mistakes. Having to live with a lunatic for months, to watch as wizards and witches more magical than he ever was be killed or tortured into insanity, to hear the silent cries for help, and to feel so helpless and hopeless. He has made a mistake for not taking a choice, for letting his Father decide what he should do, and for losing himself in the process.

In fact, Granger wasn't entirely blameless. She had her share too. She could've done things differently. But of course not; she'd chosen the long way around. She decided to run away until she barely had any strength left in her to keep running. She took the easy option. She tried to survive. And Daphne was right, he knew what it meant to survive.

Draco did everything to survive. To maintain the status of his family. To secure his and his mother's safety more than anything else. To live another day. He had done good and bad things alike to survive—because he learned, most of all, that survival doesn't question whether it was right or wrong. Survival meant acting on impulses, feeding the irrational, satisfying the basic necessity to breathe another second and walk another step, and everything else was simply a mean to an end.

 _Was it?_

Shaking his head, Draco took a quick glance at his surroundings. He stood in front of a tall glass window, holding a half-full glass of Scotch, and looking out into the dark open garden. He heard the soft rumble of thunder outside the Manor, followed by a streak of lightning on the far end of their estate, before he lifted the glass to take another sip.

"Draco?" Looking back, he found Narcissa standing at his door. She looked quite different from how she looked earlier this afternoon. The dim light fell on his mother's face, and he noticed the worried look that masked it. She asked, "May I speak to you?"

"Sure, Mother. What is it about?"

Narcissa took a step into the study. Her heels cackled against the floorboards, breaking every bit of silence in the room, as the shadow took her in. Draco only followed his mother's movements in her footsteps, as he couldn't see her properly in the dark, and soon he found her standing next to him. He looked down at her, trying to catch a look. But she only looked out the window with an elegant smile, something he often saw, and she said, "Are you okay?"

"Of course, I am. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Well," Narcissa shrugged lightly, "You haven't talked since we left Diagon Alley."

Draco passed a frustrated glance at his mother before looking away. He sighed, feeling the heaviness in his chest weigh him down, almost dragging him to the floor. He tried to breathe but the air felt so thick that his lungs nearly collapsed.

When he didn't say anything, Narcissa decided to keep their conversation flowing and asked, "Is she okay? I see she left abruptly, and I thought I might've scared the girl or something. Did I?"

The blond wizard huffed. No, that wasn't what his mother thought. He knew his mother well to know that she could manipulate people through a small twist in her words. He didn't know what, but he knew better than to believe her. She wants to know something. Or, knowing her, she probably also knew.

"Why don't you ask her yourself?" He said, pushing his fists deep into his pockets.

"I'm asking you, Draco."

He groaned. He took a hand out and rubbed his eyes in frustration before he scoffed, "Merlin forbid, you sound like Daphne." Draco reached the glass from the desk and took a mouthful down his throat. "But if you want my opinion, no, I don't think so. She was feeling… unwell, when she left."

"Did it have something to do with Charlie Weasley arriving?"

Upon hearing the question, he nearly dropped the glass onto the floor. He slammed it back on the desk, a few drops spilling over his hand, but he only glared at his mother. Narcissa, however, looked more defiant as she stood there. Their eyes met, clashing with thoughts that seemed to circulate on one specific person; and Draco was losing this battle. "Need I remind you, Mother, that we have agreed never to speak about this again. This is not our business—"

"Why not?" Narcissa demanded, raising an eyebrow. "You are already more involved in this whole situation than you'd care to admit, and it is perfectly natural for a mother to worry about her son…" Narcissa pressed her lips into a thin line. Draco saw the ends curve a little into a tiny smile. She took a step forward and reached out to touch her son's pale face. She shifted her gaze onto all the corners of his face, before she finally said, "I see it in your eyes, Draco. I see how you look at her, how you watch her, how you talk to her. I know because your father used to look at me like that." She removed her hand and flashed a sad smile before turning away.

He knew it. If he couldn't admit it to his mother, the least he could do was admit it to himself. Draco cared about Granger more than he thought he did and more than he probably should. He didn't know how. He didn't know why. But he felt it, and he didn't know what to do with it.

Draco felt a hitch in his chest, as though something clogged his veins, and he struggled to keep breathing. He watched as his mother walked, reaching for the door, and as she stopped for a second, she looked back. Her eyes met his, matched with a sincere smile, and she said, "Look after her, Draco. She needs you, and I know you need her too."

With that, Narcissa had gone, leaving Draco again with his thoughts.

* * *

 _A/N: Rushed chapter. This wasn't fun to write; in fact, it was rather difficult. But anything for you, lovelies. I just wanted to finish this scene already. But anyway, let me know what you think. Are you ready for the next chapter? I have a surprise. Thank you so much. 'Til next time!_


	21. Chapter Nineteen

**Chapter Nineteen**

 **DEATH**

 _January 6, 2002_

 _ **CHARLIE WEASLEY CHARGED WITH SEXUAL ASSAULT AGAINST WAR HEROINE—HERMIONE GRANGER**_

 _The Daily Prophet_

 _Recent events shock the whole Wizarding World as Charlie Weasley claims of having sexually assaulted the War Heroine, Hermione Granger._

 _As it turns out, Ms Granger has been quiet about this whole assault – and if not for Mr Weasley's confession, this secret could've been concealed forever._

 _An anonymous source came to us with the most devastating revelation – that Mr Weasley admitted to having "raped" Ms Granger during the Victory Celebration after the Second Wizarding War. After the said incident, Ms Granger decided to leave Hogwarts and ceased all communications with any of her friends – except Luna Lovegood (her current living companion)._

 _The source said: "He said that he was drunk and that he barely remembered what happened that night – until he saw her leaving Hogwarts. I was there when she left. Her friends – Ginny, Harry, and even Ron – all begged her to explain and tried to stop her from going. But she left anyway without another word._

 _"She never explained herself. Not in letters or anything. And I think the world needs to know what happened."_

 _We attempted to get an opinion from the source about the suspect's confession; however, they refused to disclose any of their feelings on the matter. We also contacted the Weasleys for a comment but failed as they wanted to maintain their privacy for as long as possible. Mr Weasley is now currently under investigation and reported to have been detained at the Ministry of Magic._

 _Ms Granger, however, is nowhere to be found and is feared to be hiding right now. The witch was highly recognized by the whole Wizarding World as one-third of the Golden Trio and dubbed as the brightest witch of her age._

 _However, for three years, Ms Granger managed to keep a low profile and gained a dirty reputation for "sleeping around" with different men - married or not. Some people have said their opinions, stating that "her actions disprove of her high intelligence"._

 _Could this experience be the reason for her sudden detachment from the rest of the world? Please join our discussion regarding this by owling us at the Daily Prophet. We would love to hear what you think about this._

 _Stay tuned for more!_

A short fat boy stood in the middle of Diagon Alley, holding out the latest issue of the Daily Prophet in one hand and a whole bundle balanced on the other arm. He shouted: "Big news! Big news! Drift in the War Heroes' relationships! Charlie Weasley accused—"

Diagon Alley was unnaturally stocked during that awful Sunday morning. Wizards and witches walked around everywhere, shopping or eating whilst discussing the latest gossip. The Daily Prophet's headliner proved to be quite a shock to everyone that it was all they talked about.

One woman said: "Do you think it's true? What that Charlie Weasley did to poor Hermione Granger?"

The other woman standing next to her rolled her eyes and huffed, " _Poor_? Oh please – she is far from it! That woman is a slag! She destroyed lives and ended marriages because of her carelessness! Maybe she deserved what happened to her – "

"You're still bitter about Dan - "

"Of course I am!" The red-faced woman jeered. "I was with child - and what was he doing? Running after that - "

"Why did you think she kept it a secret, though?" The first woman asked curiously.

"Perhaps she feels ashamed of how dirty she is. Being a mudblood and all – now she's also been tainted body and soul," the second woman replied – fanning herself against the heat and not even pretending to care in the very least. "I bet everyone's disgusted with her now. And she absolutely deserves nothing less by how everyone treats her."

More gossip spread across the street. Mindless gossip.

Everyone thought that they knew. But how could they – not even able to hear the cries she let out every night as her nightmares assaulted her the same way he did her body. He was always there, lingering. Under her skin. Hiding. And no matter how much she scrubbed herself clean, she couldn't wash him away.

He was a part of her. And that part was taking over – devouring and swallowing fast.

The rest of her… she was dying.

.o.O.o.

Hermione thought that falling was the worst. She was wrong.

She had never been so wrong in her life. Ever since she was a child, she lived by a code – had a moral standard to uphold – but after everything, she learnt that not everything was as simple as black and white. No, there was always that grey area – the middle, the neutral, the doubt, the dilemma…

 _What was this feeling?_ She didn't need to ask. She already knew. She knew what this was – and this was the falling, the drowning, the sinking, the dying. This was what she had been waiting for: _death_. She could almost see him looking down at her and pulling the thread of her life before finally snapping it in two separate strings. And she was ready.

Her eyes darted onto the pale white ceiling. Her head – heavily concussed with a deep open wound on the left most side of her forehead, bleeding – laid rested against the cold bathroom floor. Her hair was damp from the vomit and alcohol and blood and water flooding the entire place, touching the skin on her bare arms and soaking through her dress.

She could feel her chest rising and falling, counting her last breaths. Her lips curled into a small smile as genuine as the sun brightly beaming in through her window pane – and she finally remembered how to smile.

This was it. This was the final.

The end.

 _Her_ end.

And she couldn't have chosen a more perfect ending.

She never was fond of happy endings, anyway – not after the tragedy that struck her life. She learnt that life was too shit to have happy endings. Happy endings are for fairy tales; fairy tales are for children; and Hermione was absolutely not a child anymore.

She exhaled deeply – feeling her chest deflate with air as though it was her final breath.

Her heavy lidded eyes fluttered shut. Her chest slowing and slowing and slowing –

"HERMIONE!" A voice shouted from afar, the letters stretched and slurred – from where, she didn't know. But she couldn't wait. Not anymore. She was tired of waiting, and she had been waiting almost all her life.

 _Death is the friendliest of all_ , she thought. And, everything faded to black.

.o.O.o.

Draco let out a soft curse.

His hands balled into a tight fist as he tried to contain his anger inside his fingers – and maybe, just maybe, he would be able to keep himself from committing murder.

How stupid could he be? Initially, he thought that Ron Weasley was naturally an idiot. But maybe all the Weasleys were cursed to idiocy. Charlie Weasley proved to be the biggest of them all – having to blabber what he had done and creating a huge mess out of something that could've been prevented.

But he knew – hell, Draco knew very well that this wasn't something that could be concealed forever. Hermione tried to keep things to herself, and even if that proved to be a bad decision, he understood – granted they weren't even easy decisions. It didn't help her get better but it did help her survive – even by crawling through mud or swimming in an ocean full of sharks.

It was a risk, a great one, and she took it anyway.

He rounded his office desk and went to the liquor cabinet. Pouring a glass of whiskey, he retreated to sink back into his chair and let his eyes rest for a second. He tried his best not to look at the Daily Prophet again – fearing he might burn the paper right off his desk and ruin his precious carpets.

He sighed and took a long sip.

He quietly wondered if Hermione had seen it. The possibility that she had was high – and if she had, he thought about what she would do. Would she return to her old ways – pulling back and pushing away everyone around her? Would she allow this article to drive her insane until she sinks and falls? Or – as he hoped – would she finally ask for help?

Maybe he should owl Blaise and ask him –

Suddenly, the door of his office flung open. He snapped his head at the intrusion and saw a furious red-faced wizard striding in followed by his skimpy secretary. He rose from his seat to acknowledge their arrival before shooting a questioning look over his employee – who immediately said: "I tried to stop him, Mr Malfoy. I told him that you weren't available but he insisted – "

His ice-cold gaze shifted to Harry Potter – his face still red as a Weasley's hair, his wand drawn out. Draco nodded to his secretary, saying, "I'll handle this, Shelley. Go take an early lunch. And please, close the door when you leave." The woman obeyed without a second thought and turned to leave the two alone.

"Drink, Potter?" Draco offered – gesturing a hand toward the liquor cabinet as he walked over there. Potter looked like he needed it. He reached for the whiskey bottle. "I only have whiskey. Is that alright – "

"Where is she?" Potter demanded – his voice croaking in desperation, indirectly refusing Draco's offer of a drink. Draco examined his guest's movements – his fingers tightening around his wand, his legs restlessly pacing, and his chest erratically heaving. He knew that Potter didn't come here for a drink; in fact, Potter came here to get some answers.

Draco returned to his desk, shrugging. He picked up his own glass and waved it around, asking so innocently, "Who?" He leaned against the edge. He eyed the other wizard, allowing his eyes to burn with everything he knew about her, but could never speak of.

"Stop - stop _fucking_ around," Potter roared and twisted his wand. His chest rose and fell, his mouth contorting in anger and confusion, and his shoulders flexing frigidly – and from how he looked, Draco knew that he was an inch from exploding. He drew a finger and jabbed it toward Draco, teeth gnashing, and said: "You know who the hell I'm talking about – "

The blond rolled his eyes. "If you are referring to Granger, I don't know where she is. I'm not her keeper," Draco pointed out – waving a hand dismissively and drinking again. Merlin forbid, he needed something stronger than whisky if he was to survive this.

"Well – do you have any idea where she might be?"

"Yes," Draco said tersely. His grey eyes narrowed and cold as he looked back to the intruding wizard. "But I'm not obligated to tell you anything."

"And why the hell not?" Potter demanded, taking a step forward and planting his feet firmly on the carpet. The blond wizard raised his eyebrows in question.

"And why act so curious after all these years – "

"Because she is my best friend!" Potter bellowed – his voice hard and forceful – but he soon retreated from where he stood. His shoulders slumped as he finally succumbed to the exhaustion. "I just – please just tell me where she is, and I swear that I will never bother you again – "

Silence fell on the two wizards. Draco stood near his elegant office desk – one hand nestling a glass of whisky while the other pushed deep into his trouser pocket. Potter stood a few feet away – shoulders still slouched in weariness, trying to regulate his breathing, and hands resting on either side of his waist. Neither of them spoke for a while – the atmosphere continued to thicken as the seconds stretched into long minutes.

"She doesn't want to see you," Draco said quietly – loud enough for the other man to raise his head and frown at him in indignation.

"You don't know anything about what she wants – "

Draco laughed bitterly. He settled the unfinished glass of whisky on the desk and crossed his arms protectively over his chest. "And apparently, neither do you – because if you did, you wouldn't even be here begging me for help – "

"You like this, don't you?" Potter scoffed – shaking his head. "I knew that this was a terrible idea – but I think trying to be the bigger person here doesn't mean shit to you – "

"Oh don't be daft, Potter," Draco huffed, "The world doesn't revolve around you. You may be the Chosen One – but that variable means nothing because it doesn't fit in this entire equation. No one asked you to be the bigger person. I didn't, and Granger certainly did _not_!" He paused – chest heaving in anger. "In case you hadn't noticed – she tried to keep you away from being dragged into this… this situation. But instead of staying away, you try to be the _bigger person_ and do _what_ – fix her?"

Potter stared back at Draco. Draco noticed the man's lips pressed tightly together – trying to keep his words from tumbling out – and those green eyes flickering with so much emotion. He heard Potter exhale – the weight in his chest seemingly as heavy as the weight in Draco's. "I just – we want to help her. We... I need to see her. I need to talk to her. And to see if she's alright – "

Draco couldn't stop the laughter that came out of his mouth. He looked at Potter - who looked even more confused – and he snorted at the black-haired wizard. "What makes you think that she is – at the very least – _okay_? Either you're idealistically optimistic or, really, just incredibly stupid to think that – so tell me, which is it?" Draco snorted – an ironic combination of amusement and anger wrapping around his chest.

His guest gave no answer, only staring into empty space, thinking.

The blond shook his head. _Unbelievable_ , he thought. "I actually thought that you'd have half the mind to think about this rationally – but I guess spending too much time with the Weasleys eats away your brain cells, am I right?" The words felt like fire in his mouth – fueled by the whiskey he was drinking – and he couldn't stop. He didn't want to stop.

He had seen Granger. And she was far from alright.

One doesn't have to be close enough to see her completely – because all it takes are a set of good eyes to notice the dark circles under the eyes, and how her hands shake whenever she picked up something, and how she kept a distance of three feet from another person, and how her eyes looked at anything and everything and nothing all at the same time, and how she looked so restless. And he'd seen her –

And sometimes he wished he hadn't.

"You don't get to do this, Potter," Draco scowled. "Not after you turned your backs on her – "

"SHE LEFT US!" The black-haired wizard bellowed. His voice echoed across the office, nearly shaking the walls down. "S-s-she packed… and she disappeared… and what were we supposed to think? She left us! Without a fucking word! She didn't write – she didn't visit – she didn't do anything to make us think… Why would she fucking run away? She could've told us! We would've understood – "

"Would you, really?" Draco raised an eyebrow.

"Of course we would! She's our friend – "

"Blood is thicker than water. Or so the Muggles say," Draco insisted. "Believe me – you wouldn't have, and she spared you from tearing up your family by choosing a side – "

"And so what – you mean that I'm going to choose _him_ because he's my family?" Potter argued – eyes widened and cheeks shaded in darkest red. "My family – the family that I grew up in – abused me physically and emotionally. And you think that I would choose _that_?! No – I would choose someone who is right…" He let out a quiet sob as he caved to the pain. "God – why the fuck is this happening – "

"Ask Charlie Weasley. He's the one who couldn't keep it in his pants – "

"Shut up, Malfoy – "

Draco snickered. He held his ground and said pointedly, "No. Why should I? Last I checked, this is my office, and you are my guest. An uninvited one, that is. I didn't ask you to be here. You came here asking me for help – "

"When we saw you at the restaurant," Potter interrupted. Draco frowned – and he knew instantly what Potter was talking about. " – she cried, didn't she? When she left the table? She cried – and fuck, I saw it. I saw it – but why didn't I say anything?" Potter retreated and began pacing back and forth again. His hands flew over to his face and rubbed it, trying to keep himself awake and sane for as long as possible.

Draco sighed.

"Even if you had, she wouldn't tell you anything," Draco replied. He leaned down the desk and gripped the edge with his hands to steady himself.

A pause.

Draco looked away – but he could feel Potter's gaze burning through him, and when he looked back, Potter was frowning at him. "How did you know?" Potter asked calmly. "She told you, didn't she? Why would she tell you, of all people?"

Draco snickered. He took a glance toward the liquor cabinet where she had pushed him with all of her considerable strength and begged to suck him off – he shook his head before he could think any further. For months he had been asking himself that question and even now he didn't have an answer to that. He didn't know. Why would she tell him in the first place? Why not Luna? Why not Daphne? Why him? And even if he asked her, he doubted that she could provide him with a satisfactory answer.

"I don't know," Draco mumbled. He poured the rest of the whiskey down his throat and set the empty glass back on the desk.

It was the truth. He didn't know, and he didn't have any idea why she would tell him. It had plagued him for weeks – months, even – only thinking about why she chose to tell him. What had he done so differently than others? What made him special?

Without asking, Potter sunk down to the nearest chair and dropped his head over his hands. His fingers pushed through his unruly hair and curled and gripped – and Draco looked away, minding himself for looking at the wizard long enough.

Draco crossed his arms. _This – this was the fall_ , he thought. He had been expecting this for quite some time – and now, here they were. It wasn't only Hermione – of course, she would fall the hardest for she carried the heaviest, but she dragged everyone along as well to drown with her.

Luna.

Daphne.

Blaise.

Potter.

The Weasleys.

 _Him_.

It was an inevitability. Like death.

"It was Katie, you know – the anonymous source," Potter blurted out.

Draco snapped his head toward the man sitting on one of his couches – his eyes widened, and then narrowed – and asked: "How the hell did she even know – "

"Charlie told Ginny," Potter explained – looking up with guilt and stress clouding his eyes. "After yesterday, Hermione must've said something because Ginny… she asked Charlie about it. It was only the two of them in one of the bedrooms – and I was downstairs talking to Molly about what happened in Diagon Alley. I didn't – fuck, nobody knew that Katie was eavesdropping upstairs. Then I heard her rush down in a hurry and she disapparated without saying goodbye – and if I'd only known what was going on, I would've… I don't know – this is a fucking mess – "

Draco could taste the bile rising up in the column of his throat. He gnashed his teeth, and his hands gripped the edge of his desk tighter that his knuckles almost turned white – and unconsciously before he could even stop himself, he lightly punched the surface four times. He could feel his heart hammering louder and harder inside his ribcage – what was this feeling?

 _What the fuck was she –_

A loud bang startled the two wizards – their heads immediately turning toward the direction of the noise. The door flew open, and Blaise Zabini strode in with a heavy look on his face. His shoulders were frigid, trying to maintain his balance for a little longer. His suit was dishevelled and creased with a few stains on the collar of his white shirt. And Draco saw that his hands up to his lower arms were smeared with dried blood –

Draco felt – fuck, he _knew_ that something had gone wrong, but he hoped that it wasn't what he was thinking about. The chill in his bones was so palpable that he could feel his muscles flexing, twisting, and shuddering, and he couldn't do anything about it but wait.

For about a minute, Draco had forgotten about Potter – who remained seated on his couch and watched as Blaise paced frantically across the office floor.

"Where?" Draco asked, supplying the blank spaces in the air. His eyebrow rose as he questioned the new intruder, and his friend only heaved through his mouth.

"St Mungo's," Blaise immediately replied, not a hint of hesitation could be detected from his voice. He looked like he was about to faint - his skin a shade paler and drenched in perspiration, exhaustion ghosting his cheekbones, and his dark eyes nearly dropping.

Jumping from his seat, Potter's voice quivered as he asked, "It is Hermione? Is she hurt? If she is, I need to - "

Blaise whipped his head to the side, a wave of shock and panic contorting his face once he recognized the man. He opened his mouth to ask but was immediately cut off by Draco's voice.

" - what she needs," Draco interjected - his tone hard, insisting; his eyes clouded in frustration, " - is for you to _stay away_. She will talk to you if she _wants_ to talk to you."

"But - "

"She's hurt, Potter," Draco stressed. He sighed and forced back the words wanting to claw out of his throat. "And she's still falling, and Salazar knows how much longer until she hits the bottom. But she doesn't need you to poke around and ask questions that she isn't ready to answer. Having you around will only do more harm than good. _Any of you_. This won't help her at all."

Reaching for his dress robes, Draco hung them over his arm and exhaled. He glanced at Blaise - his face masked by a million questions - but the blond wizard ignored him.

"Will I get to see her?" Potter asked. Draco heard the dejected tone, the defeat, the loss, the fear, and all that had driven this man to the edge. Draco looked away, trying to look for answers, but he found nothing except the empty space. He saw Blaise staring at him - waiting, too, as though he too needed to know.

"I can't say," Draco replied, "That depends entirely on her."

Potter nodded. He slowly backed away, rubbing away the worries on his face, and he let out an exasperated breath. "Alright," Potter said, still nodding, trying to convince himself of his decision, "Just - just... tell me if she's alright. Owl me - anything. I just… want to know - "

"Is there anything else you need?" Draco asked sharply, trying his best not to hex this black-haired wizard. He eyed the man, waiting, and after a long pause, Draco received no response. "No? Now, then excuse me. Good day, Potter. Come on, Blaise - "

The blond wizard hurried out of his office. He couldn't bear to be in the same room as Potter anymore; the oxygen seemed to be sucked out, the room suddenly smaller and tighter, and Draco felt himself suffocating.

Soon, his friend followed him and gave him a questioning look with his mouth slightly parted as though he wanted to say something. An annoyed huff dragged out of Draco's throat before straightening his robes and striding forward, "Not a _fucking_ word, Blaise - "

And they disapparated.

* * *

 _A/N: Dun-dun-dun-_ dunnnnn _! Yes, I am still very much alive. Apologies for the_ loooooooooong _delay - this chapter, I admit, is not the best piece I've written. It's short, rushed, and a little bit unnatural. But honestly, I just didn't know how to write this one. So sorry. But anyway, first things first, let me announce/discuss a few things:_

 _1\. THIS STORY IS **NOT** ABANDONED. Okay? I promise you that I will finish this story if I have to crawl through mud and shit - I swear on my life, I will finish this story. So I ask you to be patient._

 _2\. Following the first one, it will take me quite a long while before I post another chapter for two main reasons: first, this story is incredibly hard to write since it is very personal, and second, I am focused on another_ fanfiction _story (if you've been checking my blog, it's entitled "When Hermione Met Draco"), and I intend to finish that first before continuing Breathe Again since it's lighter, and well, I'm already halfway through it._

 _3\. I want to thank Kerri for alpha-reader this chapter. Read her stories - they're all posted under **captainheavydirtysoul**. And lastly, to you, my beautiful readers, for the never-ending support and patience. You waited for this chapter for months, and now it's here. So thank you - honestly, you are one of the major reasons why I want to finish this story. I hope you enjoyed this one. _


	22. Chapter Twenty

**Chapter Twenty**

 **SIDE EFFECTS**

 _January 6, 2002_

Draco could've hoped for a better day.

He knew that this day would come. It was inevitable, unspoken yet predetermined - but he couldn't help but wish he'd been prepared more than he was now.

If only he knew better…

Of course, Draco had spoken to Blaise about this. The inevitability – as though it was a door waiting to be opened, taunting and teasing a child with the promise of paradise. The world, like the child, is a fool to open the door and let the truth enter in invitation.

 _It would be the same as asking the hurricane to spare your house_ , Draco thought.

Insanely stupid.

St Mungo's was heavily populated by the time they Apparated right into the front lobby. The crowd was composed of journalists from various newspapers and magazines, and bystanders who wanted to know what the hell was happening. The atmosphere felt so thin – sucked out by all of these people cramped in such a small space.

Cutting their way through the mob, a sudden wave of nausea washed over Draco. He struggled to keep himself upright, attempting to steady himself against the people he came across with. The mob crushed him further in; shoulders to shoulders, arms to arms, legs to legs, and he could feel his stomach churning - the claustrophobic environment finally taking a toll on him, and he hated it.

What he hated the most was he couldn't control it.

To be honest, he was never fond of crowds. It only reminded him of tight spaces with so little amount of air to breathe and so little space to move. Even the walls of his chest began to contract, the tight shape of his ribcage closing in as if being swallowed by a black hole - _what is this?_

Draco shook his head, shielding his face from the flashing cameras.

His brain swirled as memories returned to him; a hundred-foot wave of sheer force, crashing itself into the crevice of his skull, shaking his entire consciousness until he physically felt his own feet wobble. He nearly fell, but somehow, he managed to stay still -

"Mr Malfoy!" He heard, somewhere behind him.

It came out a slur like an echo from a distant dream - or maybe it came from different people, he wasn't sure. He knew that he couldn't trust his senses anymore - failing to maintain his balance, his control, as the world began to spin before him.

It didn't take long for his sight to blur - a misty hallucination clouding his vision, blinded by the blinking lights everywhere. He fluttered his eyelids shut. "What are your comments regarding Miss Granger's accusation of sexual harassment toward Charlie Weasley?" A female reporter questioned in confidence and perfect clarity, pointing her mic to his mouth.

 _Was that Rita Skeeter?_ Salazar's sake, he didn't know anymore.

More questions came like the tail of a storm rampaging in destruction, causing his head to spin faster: What can you tell us about Miss Granger's present condition? Why would she attempt suicide? Can you tell us why she kept it a secret for so long? What is your relationship with Miss Granger –

And so much more.

The answers nearly slipped off Draco's tongue. Biting the inside of his cheek, he fought hard against the sudden urge to say something. Anything. His teeth clamped around his lower lip so hard, it almost drew blood – but he didn't care.

Pain is something that can be found anywhere, if one were to look close enough – and he needed it now, to remember that he couldn't, he shouldn't, because it wasn't his fight. This wasn't about him - this was about Granger, and he didn't need to fight for her.

She -

"As the new Head of the Malfoy house, how well are you coping with this new changes – now that Lucius is sentenced to a life imprisonment in Azkaban?"

Draco's ears perked up at that statement. _What the_ … He stopped pushing himself forward; instead, his head spun around to search for that reporter. He balled his hands hard enough to break his thumbs, and that was when he heard a soft whimper next to him. Looking down, an ageing woman clutched the end of his sleeve and tugged him in despair -

No - mouth slightly agape, a series of ragged breaths escaped him. "Draco," the woman almost begged, "please take me home - "

He didn't need to look close enough to know. The crinkles in either corner of her eyes were softer, even smoother than they had been this morning. If she had any makeup on, she kept it light - for her lips look uncharacteristically swollen and chapped… and dead. Her eyes - those orbs he'd memorized in all these years of living together - seemed lost and lifeless.

"Mother - "

 _How did she… no, this isn't real_ , he told himself. He'd been here before. He'd been trapped here before, and he remembered how his mother clung to his arm as the press hounded them with questions about the verdict. Though it had happened two years ago, he knew that he'd never completely left that place. A piece of him was still tied to that memory - holding, waiting, remembering…

This wasn't real. It can't be.

Draco hardened his face into a scowl, mustering up the rest of his strength to feign indifference, when a hand grasped the sleeve of his robes. He snapped his head forward in defence and saw Blaise grabbing him toward the end of the crowd.

"You okay?" Blaise asked, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

"Did you – " Draco panted, throwing a glance down to the woman on his side - but, she had disappeared. He blinked in confusion. Her presence lingered, yet he felt nothing but air in his hands. Was it only in his mind? Was it an imagination, a mere illusion or a memory?

Blaise frowned and looked at him in question.

But Draco had no words. It seemed that all of his thoughts rolled themselves into one giant ball of string with no beginning and end - making it hard for him to trace its origin. What would he say?

Surprisingly, Draco managed to hear Blaise repeating his question over the voices in his head. It echoed in the back of his mind – but he heard it. He heard it loud enough to push him back to reality.

As his mouth failed to elicit an answer, alongside fatigue and stress draining him more and more, Draco nodded and exhaled out of exertion.

Blaise eyed him closely, a look of disbelief painted over his face. He pressed his lips together, nodding, "Alright, then. Come on." The two wizards continued their way down the less crowded corridor, leaving the infuriated mob down the lobby.

Healers and medi-witches ran about as they attended to their patients, ignoring their arrival – obviously not caring about their identities. Draco, still bothered by today's expected yet exhaustive events, walked behind Blaise down the long hall.

As they walked, Draco glanced around the place. He had only visited this place a few times; not even any of those coming close to how he felt right now. Even he couldn't put a name on what he felt because not one word can describe this… this… gut-wrenching void forming inside of him, ready to suck him in until he was nothing.

He wondered – why did he have to be here? How did he manage to get mixed up in this discombobulated tangle of mess Granger had trapped herself in? He didn't want to be here. He didn't want to be a part of this. He didn't want to know her, to carry her secrets like a cross. But now that he'd fallen in the same hole she was in, he couldn't even dig his way out.

Potter had asked him, why him? A snort escapes Draco's mouth – fuck if he knew. He couldn't tell Potter the truth, not even a lie, because even he had asked himself the same question for months now and still came up empty-handed. He didn't know – but did he even want to know?

Maybe. Maybe not.

Draco cursed himself for being a hypocrite. What in Merlin's name was wrong with him?

Shaking his head, Draco straightened his posture and followed Blaise to the end of the hall. It didn't take long for him to catch sight of an agitated blonde witch crouched down outside the emergency ward, and even from afar he could easily deduce that she, too, was having an awful day.

Luna must've sensed their presence and looked up, tears in her eyes. She jumped off the bench and ran to Blaise's arms, to which he returned the embrace without reluctance. The blonde placed her head on his shoulders and let out a sob, holding him tight as though she might fall once she let him go.

Draco stood within a small distance – not too far, not too close – and noticed the witch's hand smudged with dried blood. Red as his own, remembering it oozing out of his wounds when he was a child; even the whiff of its scent, the same metallic odour so strong he could almost taste it – and he reminded himself that it wasn't about him anymore.

He shrugged it off.

He observed her closely. Her naturally pale skin shaded with a pinkish hue, unable to completely wash off the blood; even the right side of her clothes smeared with massive splotches of blood. He thought - she must've been the one who found Granger, not that he'd been informed of what happened, but judging by the amount of blood, he couldn't mistake it for anything good.

But what did happen? He wanted to ask. He almost said it, but somehow, managed to stuff it back down to his throat. The itch made the inner walls of his mouth somewhat viscous, and Draco craved for that unpleasant, yet friendly aftertaste of alcohol to keep his nerves at bay.

Luna stood still next to Blaise after she pulled back. Her bloodshot eyes fleeted all over the place, looking everywhere and nowhere in particular, heavily lidded with exhaustion - and Draco thought she needed a drink more than he does. He noted how her fingers attempted to calm its trembling by fidgeting the hem of her bloodied cardigan.

Draco, unable to stand the quiet any longer, asked: "Any news?"

Blaise shifted his gaze to Luna, who simply responded by shaking her head in solemn defeat. She sniffed, "No - the Healers won't tell me anything because I'm not family. Have you check the flat again? There's a lot of blood… o-on the bathroom floor - "

Draco frowned, wondering who she was asking.

"I know," Blaise sighed. He threw a glance at Draco and soothed her back with a hand. "We'll take a look once they get here."

His frown deepened, echoing, "They...?"

Blaise tilted his head in attention and mumbled, "We asked Daphne to pick up Mrs Granger. She's family, and apparently, the only one the Healers will talk to."

A pregnant pause fell between the three of them; and after a minute of dreadful silence, Draco asked boldly, "Does she know?"

None of them had to clarify who he referred to.

Blaise exhaled, glancing down to his fiancee; Luna took a hint and said, "I don't think so. From what I know, Hermione and her mum aren't exactly on best terms. She rarely visits her parents; she doesn't like talking about them, and I've never seen her receive a mail from her mum. Or anyone, really. So I… I'm not sure - but I don't think so." She looked up to Blaise with a sorrowful smile, which his friend returned with a nod.

Everything had gone quiet from there.

Time dragged on, painfully slow as if the world itself has been held back on a tight leash, unable to spin to its natural pace, and the three of them could only do so much other than wait.

Blaise leaned himself against the wall; Luna sat in the middle of the bench, shaking her leg impatiently; and Draco paced the length of the hall in an attempt to keep his rage inside the ball of his fists and hid it inside his pockets.

But neither spoke to one another. All that they could do was count their breaths and wait. Just wait - for time to move again, for someone to tell them something, for someone to barge in and disrupt the quiet, for… this to be over.

Hell - they all wanted the same thing but nowhere near reaching it.

Suddenly, the rhythmic cackle of heels pulled them out of their reveries, and all heads turned up to see Daphne half-running in their direction.

Even from afar, Draco could easily see the unwiped tear tracks on her swollen cheeks. Her lips turned a shade darker by how hard she'd nibbled them. Her shoulders looked stiff, her back straight as a post, as if she tried hard to keep herself standing. He wondered if she could still breathe, but he knew, somehow, that once she releases the pressure, she'd fall.

Just like Granger.

 _Fuck_ , he cursed inwardly. Why did it always come back to her?

Draco straightened himself up and cleared his throat - and that was when he noticed a familiar-looking woman following Daphne. He stood stiff, his nerves set aflame as the two women neared the end of the hall.  
This must be her mother, he thought.

The woman – probably in her late forties or early fifties – looked ordinary. Her features almost the same as Granger's, albeit their age difference, and he wondered if this was how Granger would look once she reaches that age. A haze of exhaustion clouded her brown eyes, a look that Draco had seen all too often with Granger.

To be honest, he decided that he'd seen enough of Granger to last a lifetime. But as he stared at this aged woman, a swell began to spread across his chest, knowing that at some point, Granger might not reach this age as her mother.

"Draco?"

He blinked when he heard his name.

Looking up, Draco found all of them watching him with concern as though he'd sprouted another head - which he ignored - and hummed in question.

Daphne said, despite the worried look in her eyes, "This is Hermione's mum - Helena."

He turned to the woman - Helena - and offered a hand. The woman took it without hesitation - and the feeling of her hand reminded him so much of Granger's but he shook the thought away. He slightly bent his lips to a tight-lipped smile and released her hand from his own.

"Is there any news?" Helena asked, her hand returning to grip her handbag - containing the pressure in the middle of her palms. "What did the… um, the doctors say?"

None of them had any words; not even a term to label whatever it was that swelled inside their chests. It felt unnatural - to be unable to speak their minds, fearing that they might stumble into the unknown. No - because it wasn't their place, or their fight, or their life.

It was still Granger's.

And after everything that had happened, she deserved that choice - the decency to decide and act on her own without the influence of anything else except what she wanted.

"Well," Luna inhaled, her hands trembling as she spoke in regret, "the Healers haven't told us anything yet. She's still being treated."

"Who found her? What happened? Daphne only told me that Hermione has been in an accident."

Draco detected the slight panic raised in the older woman's voice. He glanced across the group, flitting his grey eyes carefully as he watched them - Blaise's hand rested on Luna's back for support, Luna stood as if she might fall, Daphne lowered her eyes, and the mother searched them for anything but received nothing.  
Luna faltered, "I… I - "

"Luna found her on the bathroom floor," Blaise interjected, providing the strength that Luna needed but had lost in her constant battle to hold herself together. "We returned to flat right after lunch, and she saw Hermione lying in a pool of her own blood - barely breathing. So we… um, rushed here - and well, now here we are. We still don't know what exactly happened, but we hope that the Healers might give us a possible explanation."

"Oh god - I… was she drinking?"

Everything fell silent.

Draco could hear nothing but his slow, pounding heartbeat in shock; the rest of the group looked at one another with a familiar sense of uncertainty stirring in their eyes.

If memory served correctly, he remembered her telling him that she'd thrown away her stash of alcohol and emptied her cigarette packs. He even recalled the guilt and the shame masking her gaunt face, deprived of her vices. And now, as Draco thought about it, it made so much sense that he couldn't even deny the possibility. He shook his head - no, it was the most logical explanation, and regardless of how much he hated to admit it, he knew that he had to.

Has she started drinking again? But why? Fuck - his temples throbbed painfully as he asked himself the questions that all of them were afraid to speak out.

When none of them answered, the woman went on: "She was, wasn't she? She hides it, but I'm old enough to know the difference between water and vodka. She must've slipped and hit her head."

Draco wanted to say something - but what? He didn't know. He was lost for words.

"I know that all of these must be new to you," Daphne said, taking the woman's hand in her hand. "Believe me, we were all in the same position as you are now - but… well, I'm sure the Healers will know what to do. She'll be fine."

Draco noted the unshakable quiver in his friend's words as though she, too, needed some comforting herself.

 _Will she? How sure are you?_ He wanted to ask, but of course, he knew that he would only make things worse - so he swallowed it down.

The two witches accompanied the Muggle woman, sharing a thread of familiar comfort that all of them sought. They sat on the bench and talked in hushed voices as Draco retreated to his corner, allowing his brain to finally take a break.

Blaise stood next to him and said: "She was drinking. The whole bathroom reeked of alcohol when Luna came in. I could even smell it from the hall."

Draco remained silent, allowing this new information to sink in deeper into the back of his brain. Taking a glance at his friend, he could see the exhaustion on his friend's face - the deepened lines, the clenched jaw, the tired eyes - and there was nothing he could do but sympathize.

"Did she see it? The article?"  
The question came out of his mouth so fast that it caught him off guard. But Draco tried to keep his composure, waiting.

"Merlin, I hope not," Blaise said with a dejected sigh. "But if she did… I don't know anymore. I can't even begin to think about it, and I know that it's very likely she'd seen it. But I don't want to think that - for Luna's sake, at least. I can't think that."

The quiet began to set in again.

And so, time went by slowly – dragged with a heavy ball wrapped around its ankles. Draco could hear the loud ticking of the clock in the back of his head. He could also remember sitting on the floor for about half an hour before he stood to walk around and stretch his legs. Luna had fallen asleep against Blaise's shoulders after a long while of convincing her to rest. Daphne remained to be seated with the Muggle woman, making sure that neither of them were alone.

Draco had lost track of the time when he heard the familiar sound of heels cackling against the floor – walking in a loud and confident manner – causing all of them to look up. And soon, it was followed by a voice, saying: "Well, isn't this a party?"

Uncontrollably, his hands began to ball into a fist. He straightened himself in defence, as did the others, and they looked at Rita Skeeter beaming at them.

Daphne came up behind Draco, drawing as much courage to speak up, and said: "What are you doing here, Rita? The press is not allowed in here. Only family - "

"And you aren't, I believe, family, isn't that right?" Rita pointed out, smirking as though she has caught a huge fish using only her hands. "Mrs Granger," she greeted, shoving her way through them and extending a hand for a firm shake, "My name is Rita Skeeter. I'm a journalist, and I'm here to write about your daughter's current situation - "

"What... why - " Mrs Granger faltered in confusion, glancing at the rest of them with so much question in her eyes that all could Draco do was look away. "Why are you going to write about this? It was only an accident, wasn't it?"

"Oh, is that what they've told you?" Rita spun around, her eyes sparkling with delight, and smirked at the woman. "I thought you were her friends. I wonder why you didn't want her mother to know the truth."

Mrs Granger snapped her head at Daphne, frowning.

Even behind him, Draco could sense the tension around his friend. He didn't need to look, knowing that her body had frozen from where she stood, fighting its way out of paralysis.

"We are her friends, and that also means that we have to keep her safe - "

"And you think, she isn't safe from her own mother?" Rita said, happily poking their patience with needles, "Well, I guess you wouldn't know about mothers wanting their daughters safe since your own left you alone during the war - "

"This isn't about me, Rita!" Daphna screeched.

Draco took a side-glance, seeing his friends on the edge of their seats. The atmosphere surrounding them began to thicken. He saw Daphne reach for the hilt of her wand, a curse tasting so venomously on her tongue, and from afar, he could also see Blaise guard his fiancee.

"This is about Hermione! And by publishing this, you'll ruin her even more!"

"There's nothing left to ruin, Ms Greengrass. She did that all by herself. She slept with everything that moved, and she felt no remorse for the families she tore apart - "

"NO – SHE ONLY DID THAT BECAUSE HE RAPED HER!"

And then, the entire hall began to move in slow motion. So slow, it might've stopped.

Draco froze. His entire body had gone frigid, hearing that deafening silence penetrating through the entire hall. The walls of his chest started to collapse, crumbling and crumpling at once; his lungs shrunk into airless balloons; his muscles flexed tightly that it hurt to move.

He stayed like this for a moment. Until Daphne stumbled back once she realised what she said, her back colliding with his chest, shaking him out of his trance. He caught her by the elbows before she fell to the ground. He heard her choke back a sob behind her hand -

"What did you say?" Mrs Granger mumbled, panic rising at the top of her throat, "What do you mean? What does _she_ mean?"

"Well - "

"Choose your words, Skeeter. They could be your last words," Draco spoke for the first time, his words laced with poison. His hands grasped around Daphne's elbows to steady her; even his own hands trembled against her skin, agitation pulsing all over his body.

Rita let out a maniacal laugh. She giggled in amusement, shaking her head at him, before replying: "Oh – what a bold move, Mr Malfoy, but sadly, I'm not scared. Your word means nothing in the Wizarding World anymore. Not after your _participation_ in the war. Or did you forget that it was your family who tortured Ms Granger in your own house?"

Draco inhaled sharply as though he was breathing her words. And so, he wasn't there anymore; he left and went to another place, a place which was narrow and dark – almost pitch black – and no light could show him the way out. The walls seemed to close around him, inching further and further in, until the air in his lungs began to smell of smoke.

Then, he heard it.

Her screams splitting through the ice-cold silence. Its pitch almost tangible enough to send chills up his spine, as he stood there, and he wondered if it was only in his head -

It was one of the things that kept him wide awake most nights. Even though, the war had been over; somehow, in his subconscious, another war began to stir with explosive thoughts loud enough to wake his sleeping nerves. He could hear everything, even if he couldn't see it, and when he closes his eyes, all he could smell was death.

And he knew that Granger, having to fight a war of her own, also made a deal with Death a long time ago. Just as he did.

What came next was unexpected; he wasn't sure how long he'd stood there, with his hands still holding Daphne's, and whether it was his hands shaking or her elbows, he didn't know.

Luna, who managed to step forward from behind Blaise, hardened her face in defiance before saying, "Then, take my word for it; I fought in the war, and trust me, they will believe me. So, in this order: get out, leave us alone, go to hell."

Rita gaped at Luna's threat. She glanced from her to the rest of them, her mouth still hanging open, panic hinted in her eyes, before she managed to turn her shock into a scowl. She sighed heavily in defeat and stomped out of the hospital.

Blaise started, "Babe, that was - "

"What do you mean?" Mrs Granger asked quietly. Her voice cracked, nearly breaking into sobs but managing to keep it together for one more second – a kind of strength that Draco wished he had right then. "Can somebody tell me what's going on? What does that woman mean? What do I need to know?"

"Mrs Granger," Luna called, and Draco could hear her – begging in silence not to ask what they couldn't answer.

"No, you tell me what that means - " Mrs Granger croaked, followed by tears falling down her gaunt face. "Please, tell me what that means. I have to know. Is she okay? Is my daughter okay?"

Daphne cried, shaking her head. Draco heard her muttering apologies into the thin air that she has been gasping for. Luna reached out her hands to hold Mrs Granger's, but the Muggle woman pulled hers back, and Luna was left standing there with nothing to cling onto -

With a sigh, Luna conjured the latest edition of the _Prophet_ in her hands. Her fingers curled tightly on the edges of the newspaper, breathing in heavily, before she gave it to the Muggle woman.

Mrs Granger snatched the paper, immediately scanning her eyes across the front page, and released a loud cry of distress. Her knees buckled and crumbled; whatever strength she had had been drained, stomped by a fist down her throat, which kept her from saying something.

Draco exhaled. He turned and decided to leave them alone; and as he walked away, all he could hear was a wail fading behind him.

* * *

 _A/N: Aww! Yes! Finally, I've posted this. This chapter has been rotting in my drive. And the past few months have been hell. I've had several mental breakdowns, and I've been prescribed some anti-depressants. In addition, work is not that stressful, but I barely manage to write anything. But I am trying, guys, so much - so please bear with me! Thank you so much for waiting. And I apologize for taking so long to update this story. I hope you enjoyed this one. 'Til next time! xoxo_


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